The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.
Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues.
Avaunt, you cullions!
He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!
We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.