But yesterday, the word of Cæsar might

Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence.

Act iii. Sc. 2.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

Act iii. Sc. 2

See, what a rent the envious Casca made!

This was the most unkindest cut of all.

Act iii. Sc. 2.

Act iii. Sc. 2.

Great Cæsar fell.

Act iii. Sc. 2.

O what a fall was there, my countrymen!

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;
I am no orator, as Brutus is.

I only speak right on. Act iii. Sc. 2.

Put a tongue

In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

Act iii. Sc. 2.

Act iv. Sc. 2.

There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.

You yourself

Are much condemned to have an itching palm.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

The foremost man of all this world.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,

Than such a Roman.

Act iv. Sc. 8.

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty,

That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Act iv. Sc. 3.

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

The last of all the Romans, fare thee well.

Act v. Sc. 3.

This was the noblest Roman of them all.

Act v.

Sc. 5.

His life was gentle, and the elements
So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, This was a man!

Act v. Sc. 5.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned.

This morning, like the spirit of a youth
That means to be of note, begins betimes.

Act iv. Sc. 4.

CYMBELINE.

Hark. hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,*

Striving to better, oft we mar what 's well.

Act i. Sc. 4.

O, let not women's weapons, water-drops,

Stain

my man's cheeks.

Act ii. Sc. 4.

*None but the lark so shrill and clear!

Now at Heaven's gate she claps her wings,

The morn not waking till she sings. — John Lyly.

Alexander and Campaspe. Act v. Sc. 1.

Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage !

blow!

Act iii. Sc. 2.

A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.

O, that way madness lies; let me shun that.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?

Act iii. Sc. 4.

But mice, and rats, and such small deer,
Have been Tom's food for seven long year.

The prince of darkness is a gentleman.

Act iii. Sc. 4

Act iii. Sc. 4.

I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban.

Fie, foh, and fum,

I smell the blood of a British man.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

The little dogs and all,

Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me.

Act iii. Sc. 6.

Patience and sorrow strove,

Who should express her goodliest.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

Half way down

Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head:

The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,

Appear like mice.

Act ivery inc. a king.

Ay, ev. Sch 6.

Act iv. Sc. 6.

Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to

sweeten my imagination.

Act iv. Sc. 6.

Through tattered clothes small vices do appear;

Robes and furred gowns hide all.

Act iv. Sc. 6.

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices

Make instruments to scourge us.

Act v. Sc. 8.

Her voice was ever soft,

an excellent thing in woman.

Act v. Sc. 3.