Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.

Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)

Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.

Give it an understanding, but no tongue.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost.

Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.