Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?

Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.

My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay... Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done.

O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!

They have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor

The will of man is by his reason sway'd.

So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.