Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart will be found an ass.

When Caesar says, 'Do this', it is performed.

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.

O the world is but a word; were it all yours to give it in a breath, how quickly were it gone!

Can one desire too much of a good thing?

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.

To saucy doubts and fears.