As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport.
As be was valiant, I honour him: but, as he was ambitious, I slew him.
Art thou base, common and popular?
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
And why not death rather than living torment? To die, is to be banish’d from myself; And Silvia is myself; banish’d from her, Is self from self; a deadly banishment!
And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault, doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak.
And like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glittering o’er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
And all my mother came into mine eyes and gave me up to tears.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
All things are ready, if our minds be so.