I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have.

You know who you are, but know not who you could be.

What valor were it, when a cur doth grin, for one to thrust his hand between his teeth, when he might spurn him with his foot away?

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

The rest, is silence.

Is this government of Britain's Isle, and this the royalty of Albion's King?

Time and the hour run through the roughest day.