Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.

Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.