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

As good luck would have it.

There's small choice in rotten apples.

Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe

Then happy I that love and am beloved, where I may not remove nor be removed.

Nothing can come of nothing.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?