O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.

The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.

We cannot fight for love, as men may do; we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo

Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.