The will of man is by his reason sway'd.

My crown is in my heart, not on my head.

We are such stuff that dreams are made of.

If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?

Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

But most it is presumption in us when the help of heaven we count the act of men.

Ay me! sad hours seem long.