O! that a man might know The end of this day's business, ere it come; But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known.

Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.

Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.

That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.

Thou hast nor youth nor age But as it were an after dinner sleep Dreaming of both.

Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.