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How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown,
Within whose circuit is Elysium
And all that poets feign of bliss and joy! (1.2.33)

O tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide! (1.4.137)

This battle fares like to the morning’s war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night. (1.5.1)

O God! methinks it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run,
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live. (1.5.22)

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery? (1.5.43)

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on. (2.2.19)

Didst thou never hear
That things ill got had ever bad success?
And happy always was it for that son
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell? (2.2.47)

Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile,
And cry ‘Content!’ to that which grieves my heart,
And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,
And frame my face to all occasions.
I’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;
I’ll slay more gazers than the basilisk;
I’ll play the orator as well as Nestor,
Deceive more slyly than Ulysses could,
And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.
I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,
And set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down. (3.2.183)

Peace! impudent and shameless Warwick, peace;
Proud setter up and puller down of kings. (3.3.157)

A little fire is quickly trodden out,
Which, being suffered, rivers cannot quench. (4.8.8)

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;
The thief doth fear each bush an officer. (5.6.12)