Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will.

Let every man be master of his time.

Beware the ides of March.

'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.

So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I ha' lost my reputation, I ha' lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial!

Flout 'em, and scout 'em; and scout 'em, and flout 'em; / Thought is free.