The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.
Não tenho dormido. Entre a ação de um ato terrível e o primeiro gesto, todo esse intervalo é como um fantasma ou um sonho odioso: O Génio e os instrumentos mortais estão nessa altura reunidos; e a condição do homem, equiparável a um pequeno...
I thrice presented him a kingly crown. Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
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)
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars But ...
O that a man might know The end of this day's business ere it come! But it sufficeth that the day will end And then the end is known.
You see we do, yet see you but our hands And this the bleeding business they have done: Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful
As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him; The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones
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!
Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/ But in ourselves.
He reads much; He is a great observer and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; 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 mo...
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey?
