Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
When our actions do not, our fears make us traitors.
Thou hast the most unsavoury similes.
I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love.