I tell you that which you yourselves do know, Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me.

Safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head, The least a death to nature.

The wound of peace is surety, Surety secure; but modest doubt is called The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To th' bottom of the worst.

What wound did ever heal but my degrees?

The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst, 'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!

How he in peace is wounded, not in war.