I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.
What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.
The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.
What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.