There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, For I am armed so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind

Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!

There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune,--often the surfeit of our own behavior,--we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star.

Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.