Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.

I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven

She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.

To beguile the time, look like the time.