Th abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.
Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
We cannot fight for love, as men may do; we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo
Thou whoreson, senseless villain!
We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.