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

My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.

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

How poor are they that have have not patients.

O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable

Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.

Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.