They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

Gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain'd my freedom.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.

Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.