Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.

England is safe, if true within itself.

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.

Liberty plucks justice by the nose; The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart Goes all decorum.

Is this government of Britain's Isle, and this the royalty of Albion's King?

Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!