The latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast, Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help; and study help for that which thou lamentest.

Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)

Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing; To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

Who is so firm that can't be seduced?

Why should honor outlive honestly? Orthello