And nothing is, but what is not.
Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
Life's uncertain voyage.
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?
Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
Give thanks for what you are today and go on fighting for what you gone be tomorrow