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.

Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.

Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.

Flout 'em, and scout 'em; and scout 'em, and flout 'em; / Thought is free.

I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

You shall more command with years than with your weapons.

It is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents and bolts up change.