Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
From William Shakespeare
Farewell, fair cruelty.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.
O, had I but followed the arts!
This life, which had been the tomb of his virtue and of his honour, is but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottage princes' palaces.
I shall the effect of this good lesson keeps as watchman to my heart.
No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
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