Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead!

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear

You pay a great deal too dear for what's given freely

The weakest goes to the wall.

The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, but in ourselves if we are underlings.

I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it’s an enemy to thee.