Soft pity enters an iron gate.
To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end.
Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.
My crown is in my heart, not on my head.
She told her, while she kept it, 'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father Entirely to her love, but if she lost it Or made a gift of it, my father's eye Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt After new fancies.
All the world is a stage and we are merely players.