No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.
His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought
To saucy doubts and fears.
Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why then this parting was well made.