How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.

O tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide!

Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, And in the taste confounds the appetite: Therefore love moderately— long love doth so.

Pride went before, ambition follows him.