Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger
This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.
Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.
O, she misused me past the endurance of a block.
He was ever precise in promise-keeping.