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
Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more
Beware the ides of March
This was the noblest Roman of them all
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous
For Brutus is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men
As he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him
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