Julius Caesar quotes: "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him". Quote (Act III, Scene II).
"But, for my own part, it was Greek to me". - Julius Caesar Quote (Act I, Scene II).
"A dish fit for the gods". Quote (Act II, Scene I).
"Cry "Havoc," and let slip the dogs of war". Julius Caesar Quote (Act III, Sc. I).
"Et tu, Brute!" Quote (Act III, Scene I).
"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". - (Quote Act I, Scene II).
"Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more". Quote (Act III, Scene II).
"Beware the ides of March". - (Quote Act I, Scene II).
SHAKESPEARE QUOTATIONS= A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool. William Shakespeare A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. William Shakespeare A peace is of the nature of a conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser. William Shakespeare Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment. William Shakespeare Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless! William Shakespeare All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause – there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?
Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.