We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.

See where she comes apparelled like the spring.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.

Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.

For she had eyes and chose me.

A merry heart goes all the way, - A sad one tires inan hour.