Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
William ShakespeareThere is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
William ShakespeareThe sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
William ShakespeareThere's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't
William Shakespeare