Small To Greater Matters Must Give Way.

Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those Who Win.

The Soul Of This Man Is His Clothes.

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.

O Me, You Juggler, You Canker-blossom, You Thief Of Love!

As Flies To Wanton Boys, Are We To The Gods; They Kill Us For Their Sport.