Truth needs no color; beauty, no pencil.
You had measured how long a fool you were upon the ground.
Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate
Barnes are blessings.
Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?