But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.

What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.

The hideous god of war.

What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*

He that is truly dedicated to war hath no self-love

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.