That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.

Religious canons, civil laws, are cruel; then what should war be?

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

O sir, you are old; nature in you stands on the very verge of her confine; you should be ruled and led by some discretion, that discerns your fate better than you yourself.

Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.

Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things.