The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find.

But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.

Ha. "Against my will I am sent to bid you come into dinner." There's a double meaning in that. -Benedick (Much Ado)

Well, honor is the subject of my story.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.