Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.

When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!

Men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.

The due of honor in no point omit.

Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!

And she's fair I love.