If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

There's place and means for every man alive.

There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.

He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.

So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.