The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

You have but mistook me all the while... I live by bread like you, taste grief, feel want, need friends. Conditioned thus how can you call me king?

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?

Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.

The hideous god of war.

For my own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.