Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.

Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.