Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.

You told a lie, an odious damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

There is nothing so confining as the prisons of our own perceptions.

Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win.

How every fool can play upon the word!