Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.
Virtue itself ‘scapes not calumnious strokes.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.
Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth.
Where having nothing, nothing can he lose.
When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, but sorrow flouted at is double death.
O! give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book.