Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: today he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And - when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening - nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't.

Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.

Give it an understanding, but no tongue.

The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.

Muster your wits; stand in your own defence.

We must follow, not force Providence.