The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.

I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.

It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold.

I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.

For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.

O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse.

But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.