Cursed be he that moves my bones.
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side
To take arms against a sea of troubles.
No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things.
I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.
Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.