Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

In delay there lies no plenty.

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

Faith, there hath been many great men that have flattered the people who ne'er loved them.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.