The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.

That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends.

And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

For mine own part, it was Greek to me.

If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.

Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.