Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.
Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.
I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.
And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed.
Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow