The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.
Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.
Men at sometime are the masters of their fate.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
Take it in what sense thou wilt.
He does it with better grace, but I do it more natural.