They that stand high have many blasts to shake them.

The cunning livery of hell.

You lie, in faith; for you are call'd plain Kate, And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst; But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation; Hearing thy mildness praised in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs, Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.

A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)

Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.