Cowardly dogs bark loudest.
In all our quest of greatness, like wanton boys, whose pastime is their care, we follow after bubbles, blown in the air.
Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.
Lay this unto your breast: Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.
The misery of us, that are born great, We are forced to woo because none dare woo us.
All things do help the unhappy man to fall.