How low am I, thou painted maypole?

We must not make a scarecrow of the law, Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, And let it keep one shape till custom make it Their perch, and not their terror.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told.

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation

From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Speak comfortable words.