Poor Brutus, with himself at war,

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
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.

There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome
As easily as a king.

That lowliness is young ambition's ladder,
Whereto the climber-upward turns his face;
But when he once attains the upmost round,
He then unto the ladder turns his back,
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees
By which he did ascend.

Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!

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