The gods are just and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us.
One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of valiant dust?
Timon: I'll beat thee, but I should infect my hands.
When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded, to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate— That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.