The head is not more native to the heart.

Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!

Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.

Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.

Beware the leader who bangs the drums of war in order to whip the citizenry into a patriotic fervor.

Make use of time, let not advantage slip.

Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.