My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.

For I can raise no money by vile means. By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas

To saucy doubts and fears.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The quality of mercy is not strained

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.