My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

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.

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

To be generous, guiltless, and of a free disposition is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets.

Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.

One sin another doth provoke.