William Shakespeare

Beware the ides of March.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Cowards die many times before their deaths;

The valiant never taste of death but once.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date

Cry 'Havoc!,' and let slip the dogs of war.

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.

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.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments.

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York.

A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!