The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him.

Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

I am falser than vows made in wine.

Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes: Some falls are means the happier to arise

This thought is as a death.

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.