O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.

Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.

Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, / I must not look to have; but, in their stead, / Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, / Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not" (5.3.25-28).

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

Your "if" is the only peacemaker; much virtue in "if.