Let Fancy Still In My Sense In

You Cannot, Sir, Take From Me Any Thing That I Will More Willingly Part Withal: Except My Life, Except My Life, Except My Life.

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph; I, That Am Curtailed Of This Fair Proportion, Cheated Of Feature By Dissembling Nature, Deformed, Unfinished, Sent Before My Time Into This Breathing World, Scarce Half Made Up, And That So Lamely And Unfashionable That Dogs Bark At Me As I Halt By Them,-- Why, I, In This Weak Piping Time Of Peace, Have No Delight To Pass Away The Time, Unless To Spy My Shadow In The Sun.

Into What Dangers Would You Lead Me, Cassius, That You Would Have Me Seek Into Myself For That Which Is Not In Me?

The Strawberry Grows Underneath The Nettle And Wholesome Berries Thrive And Ripen Best Neighbour'd By Fruit Of Baser Quality.

Good Fortune Then! To Make Me Blest Or Cursed'st Among Men.