Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my love.

What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.

It is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, And makes men mad.

Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

Where is your ancient courage? You were used to say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm all boats alike showed mastership in floating.