Muster your wits; stand in your own defence.

Take it in what sense thou wilt.

The sudden hand of Death close up mine eye!

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?

Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes—and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.