"Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men at some time are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Brutus and Trump: what should be in that 'Trump'?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Trump.
Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this our Trump feed,
That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed!
America, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!"
My changes of Shakespeare's text.
In Defense of the Trumpian “Julius Caesar” - The New Yorker
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