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

Look, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.

An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.

O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.

But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.

Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you.

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.