Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

If he be so resolved, I can o'ersway him; for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betrayed with trees And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers

A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.

While he was drunk asleep, or in his rage, or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?

Beware the ides of March.

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.