Blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please.
In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.
Some are born great, others achieve greatness.
Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.
O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh
Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent.