Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.
I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love.
O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
Out of this nettle - danger - we pluck this flower - safety.
My crown is in my heart, not on my head; not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen: my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.