For many men that stumble at the threshold are well foretold that danger lurks within.

King Henry: But what a point, my lord, your falcon made, And what a pitch she flew above the rest! To see how God in all his creatures works! Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. Suffolk: No marvel, an it like your majesty, My lord protectors hawks do tower so well; They know their masters loves to be aloft, And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch. Gloucester: My lord, 'tis but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.

Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! *It’s sad. Love looks like a nice thing, but it’s actually very rough when you experience it.*

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?

I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.

We are such stuff that dreams are made of.