Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness.

Look how the world's poor people are amazed at apparitions, signs and prodigies!

Wait for the season when to cast good counsels upon subsiding passion.

I will praise any man that will praise me.

Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list!