This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune,--often the surfeit of our own behavior,--we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star.

I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.

For thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.

Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness.

I came, saw, and overcame.

The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.

There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.