Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

What is the city but the people?

O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .

Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in, bear t that th' opposed may beware of thee.

And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.

O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art.

This thing of darkness I acknowlege mine. There is nothing more confining than the prison we don't know we are in.