The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

As many arrows, loosed several ways, come to one mark...so many a thousand actions, once afoot, end in one purpose.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.

Well could he ride, and often men would say, "That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!" And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; a flower that dies when it begins to bud; a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!