William Shakespeare

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.

Out, out, brief candle!

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?

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.

Beware the ides of March.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, but not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.

Give thy thoughts no tongue.

I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.