1 Poor soul, his eyes are red as fire with weeping.
2 Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws.
3 With this she fell distract, And, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire.
4 I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.
5 The conquerors can but make a fire of him; For Brutus only overcame himself, And no man else hath honour by his death.
6 Some two months hence, up higher toward the North He first presents his fire; and the high East Stands, as the Capitol, directly here.
7 The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks, They are all fire, and every one doth shine; But there's but one in all doth hold his place.
8 These couchings and these lowly courtesies Might fire the blood of ordinary men, And turn pre-ordinance and first decree Into the law of children.
9 O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger as the flint bears fire, Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again.
10 And there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets.
11 A common slave, you'd know him well by sight, Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand, Not sensible of fire remain'd unscorch'd.