Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Use every man according to his desert and who should 'scape whipping? Use them after your own honor and dignity, the less they deserve ... the more merit in your bounty.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.

The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.

T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.