That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
For such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, ye're so slight.
thou art the best o' the cut-throats
If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.