Then others for breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.

We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.

Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.

Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, Manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man