. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.

Give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy

She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

I scorn you, scurvy companion.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.