The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

What? do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.

We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

Unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone.

The due of honor in no point omit.