How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.

For my own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.

I would fain die a dry death.

My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.

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

You must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.