Though She Be But Little, She Is

This Is The Excellent Foppery Of The World, That, When We Are Sick In Fortune,--often The Surfeit Of Our Own Behavior,--we Make Guilty Of Our Disasters The Sun, The Moon, And The Stars: As If We Were Villains By Necessity; Fools By Heavenly Compulsion; Knaves, Thieves, And Treachers, By Spherical Predominance; Drunkards, Liars, And Adulterers, By An Enforced Obedience Of Planetary Influence; And All That We Are Evil In, By A Divine Thrusting On: An Admirable Evasion Of Whoremaster Man, To Lay His Goatish Disposition To The Charge Of A Star.

Why, Thou Knowest I Am As Valiant As Hercules, But Beware Instinct. The Lion Will Not Touch The True Prince. Instinct Is A Great Matter. I Was A Coward On Instinct.

What A Piece Of Work Is A Man, How Noble In Reason, How Infinite In Faculties, In Form And Moving How Express And Admirable, In Action How Like An Angel, In Apprehension How Like A God.

Infirm Of Purpose! Give Me The Daggers: The Sleeping And The Dead Are But As Pictures: ‘tis The Eye Of Childhood That Fears A Painted Devil

By My Troth, I Care Not; A Man Can Die But Once; We Owe God A Death And Let It Go Which Way It Will He That Dies This Year Is Quit For The Next