My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.

My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.

Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.

Nice customs curtsy to great kings.

Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.

And blind oblivion swallowed cities up.

Greatest scandal waits on greatest state.