1 O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.
2 Here is a sick man that would speak with you.
3 A piece of work that will make sick men whole.
4 By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness.
5 I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour.
6 Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, For he went sickly forth: and take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him.
7 I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius," As a sick girl.
8 This morning are they fled away and gone, And in their steads do ravens, crows, and kites Fly o'er our heads, and downward look on us, As we were sickly prey: their shadows seem A canopy most fatal, under which Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost.