Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
O, full of scorpions is my mind!
Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!