And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And asleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must be heard of, say, I taught thee.
Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor; for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.
Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.