Sketch-blog of an alien-cat-sorcerer.

Special Takes Series

There ‘s daggers in men’s smiles

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none

As he was valiant, I honor him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come

Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous

For Brutus is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men

This was the noblest Roman of them all

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff

Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more

Beware the ides of March

Et tu, Brute!

Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings

A dish fit for the gods

Cry “Havoc,” and let slip the dogs of war

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him

But, for my own part, it was Greek to me

I’ll not budge an inch

We have seen better days

If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose

True nobility is exempt from fear

Having nothing, nothing can he lose

Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed

Small things make base men proud

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer

Delays have dangerous ends

We have heard the chimes at midnight

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on

A man can die but once

I do now remember the poor creature, small beer

He hath eaten me out of house and home

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown

He will give the devil his due

The better part of valour is discretion

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall

The miserable have no other medicine but only hope

As good luck would have it

Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt

This is the short and the long of it

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is

Blow, blow, thou winter wind! Thou art not so unkind as man’s ingratitude

True is it that we have seen better days

The world is grown so bad, that wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch

But love is blind, and lovers cannot see

Off with his head!

An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told

Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe

So wise so young, they say, do never live long