Julius Caesar

And since you know you cannot see yourself,so well as by reflection, I, your glass,will modestly discover to yourself,that of yourself which you yet know not of.

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/ But in ourselves.

But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow worldLike a Colossus; and we petty menWalk under his huge legs, and peep aboutTo find ourselves dishonourable graves.

Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.O hateful error, Melancholy's child,Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of menThe things that are not? O Error, soon concieved,Thou never com'st unto a happy birth,But kill'st the mother that engendered thee.

As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.

I thrice presented him a kingly crown. Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!

Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come

The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks,They are all fire and every one doth shine