Oh, flatter me; for love delights in praises.
Jesters do oft prove prophets.
My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.
I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.