Fight valiantly to-day; and yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valor.
How my achievements mock me!
We cannot all be masters.
Give me to drink mandragora.
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.