We Know What We Are, But Know

Jesters Do Oft Prove Prophets.

All The Contagion Of The South Light On You, You Shames Of Rome! You Herd Of--boils And Plagues Plaster You O'er; That You May Be Abhorr'd Further Than Seen, And One Infect Another Against The Wind A Mile!

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself

The Sands Are Number'd That Make Up My Life; Here Must I Stay, And Here My Life Must End.

For Brutus, As You Know, Was Caesar's Angel: Judge, O You Gods, How Dearly Caesar Loved Him! This Was The Most Unkindest Cut Of All