Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.
How wayward is this foolish love that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod.
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
These times of woe afford no time to woo.
O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)