It is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, And makes men mad.

Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.

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

Cursed be he that moves my bones.

The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.

O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.