Out, damned spot! out, I say!
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none
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
For Brutus is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men
But, for my own part, it was Greek to me
Small things make base men proud
Delays have dangerous ends
The miserable have no other medicine but only hope
I cannot tell what the dickens his name is
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told
So wise so young, they say, do never live long
Why, then the world ‘s mine oyster
Absence from those we love is self from self – a deadly banishment.
Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?
A little more than kin, and less than kind
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
He is deformed, crooked, old and sere,
Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere;
Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;
Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.
AS PROPER MEN AS EVER TROD UPON NEAT’S LEATHER.