The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.
The villany you teach me I shall execute; and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.
Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.
Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery: nothing else holds fashion.
Some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time.