No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things.
Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell ... Or say with princes if it shall go well.
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.
So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.
You are a tedious fool.