Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.
Cowards die many times; a brave man dies but once.
No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.
We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.