Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

For I can raise no money by vile means.

What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fishlike smell; a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all

I thought my heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.

This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.

We must not make a scarecrow of the law, Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, And let it keep one shape till custom make it Their perch, and not their terror.