O wretched state! o bosom black as death!
Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.
To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.
No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things.
Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.
A flock of blessings light upon thy back