The man that hath no music in himself

Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.

...too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.

Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed.

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.

Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?