Take It In What Sense Thou Wilt.

The Ides Of March Are Come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; But Not Gone.

It Is A Heretic That Makes The Fire, Not She Which Burns In It.

Scarce Can I Speak, My Choler Is So Great. Oh! I Could Hew Up Rocks, And Fight With Flint.

I Will Live In Thy Heart, Die In Thy Lap, And Be Buried In Thy Eyes—and Moreover, I Will Go With Thee To Thy Uncle’s.

The Seasons Change Their Manners, As The Year Had Found Some Months Asleep And Leapt Them Over.