Words to deeds cold breath gives.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks
The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.