This above all; to thine own self be true.
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.
Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?
Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
I'll note you in my book of memory.
O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art.