Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.

Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?" Malvolio: "Fool, there was never a man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art." Feste: "But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in you wits than a fool.

Murder most foul, as in the best it it; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

Too much to know is to know naught but fame.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

Flout 'em, and scout 'em; and scout 'em, and flout 'em; / Thought is free.

No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things.