In the modesty of fearful duty, I read as much as from the rattling tongue of saucy and audacious eloquence.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?

Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

If love be blind, it best agrees with night