Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.

O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.

Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.

The weakest kind of fruit drops earliest to the ground.

England is safe, if true within itself.

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.

Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.