No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things.

A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench.

Life every man holds dear; but the dear man holds honor far more precious dear than life.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

Here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the king's English.

From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.

O tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide!