How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

England is safe, if true within itself.

He reads much; He is a great observer and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music; Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous.

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*

Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none