A merry heart goes all the way, - A sad one tires inan hour.
Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)
Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!
We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.
Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
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?