If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.

How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother

Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues.

Men at some time are masters of their fates.