Beware the ides of March.
Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come
For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.
Silence is the perfect herald of joy.
The sense of death is most in apprehension.
It is my soul that calls upon my name; How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! -Romeo