He reads much; He is a great observer; and he looks Quite through the deeds of men.

He loves no plays, . . . he hears no music; Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing.

O Judgment! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason!

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

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.

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.

Et tu, Brute?

A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once. It seems to me most strange that men should fear, seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.

Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!

The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.

There is a tide in the affairs of men Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat; And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures.

Of all the wonders that I have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come. (Act II, Scene 2)

Beware the ides of March.

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!

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

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

When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

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.

There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.

The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.