O Kadarius, Kadarius, wherefore art thou Kadarius?
In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in it.
To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.
By the pricking of his thumb, something wicked this way comes.
Lay on Von Miller, And damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’
There's small choice in rotten apples.
Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
A receiver! a receiver! My kingdom for a wide receiver!
Action is eloquence.
He was but as the cuckoo is in June, Heard, not regarded.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.