Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority.

So. Lie there, my art.

Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery: nothing else holds fashion.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't.

It is the mind that makes the body rich; and as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honor peereth in the meanest habit.

What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.