Proper deformity shows not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.
We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man.
Love is . . . a madness most discreet
We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.