Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

Presume not that I am the thing I was.

Men at some time are masters of their fates.

For where is any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?

And thence from Athens turn away our eyes To seek new friends and stranger companies.

England is safe, if true within itself.