True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.

I'll look to like; if looking, liking move.

I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me

I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.

We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly followed.

Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up. Be that thou know'st thou art and then thou art as great as that thou fear'st.