My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!

Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.

She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known

The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.

Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it.

Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.

Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.