I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.

Upon thy cheek I lay this zealous kiss, as seal to the indenture of my love.

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'er-reaches; one that would circumvent God, might it not?

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not

All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

Beware the ides of March.