Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

For I can raise no money by vile means.

When the sea was calm all ships alike showed mastership in floating.

Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.

How now, wit! Whither wander you?

But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.

The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.