It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, and that craves wary walking.
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- Grief fills the room up of my absent child, lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words.
- A walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.
- My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns me for a villain.
- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be never so vile. This day shall gentle his condition. And gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
- We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
- The will is deaf and hears no heedful friends.