O how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes favors! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have, and when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.

Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.

we are the lords of all eternity

He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.

Make not your thoughts your prisons.

Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.

Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.