There is a tide in the affairs of men
No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.
Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor
For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood.
Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave.