Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.

Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?

It is not night when I do see your face.

Shall remain! Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you His absolute 'shall'?

Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend.

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

Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy: sayest thou that house is dark?