The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.

Cry "havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.

It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death's-bed-Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!

Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.

A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers.