Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither. Ripeness is all.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
I must be cruel, only to be kind.
Here was a Caesar! When comes such another?