Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender's books, and defy the foul fiend.

For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.

More can I bear than you dare execute.

Desperate times breed desperate measures

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.

Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority.

. . from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done.