Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None

My Tongue Will Tell The Anger Of My Heart, Or Else My Heart Concealing It Will Break.

... The Spring, The Summer, The Chilling Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries; And The Mazed World By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May, And As Gorgeous As The Sun In Midsummer.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

When He Is Best, He Is A Little Worse Than A Man; And When He Is Worst, He Is Little Better Than A Beast.