Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.

Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

The soul of this man is his clothes.

Coward dogs most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten runs far before them.

She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, therefore to be won.

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?

Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will.