Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
...lest too light winning make the prize light.
Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
So distribution should undo excess, and each man have enough.
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.