He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.
For grief is crowned with consolation.
What made me love thee? let that persuade thee, there's something extraordinary in thee
I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.