Who can control his fate?
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!
Now I will believe that there are unicorns.
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.