For Such Things As You, I Can

What Must Be Shall Be.

A Goodly Portly Man, I' Faith, And A Corpulent; Of A Cheerful Look, A Pleasing Eye, And A Most Noble Carriage; And, As I Think, His Age Some Fifty, Or, By'r Lady, Inclining To Threescore; And Now I Remember Me, His Name Is Falstaff.

O Excellent! I Love Long Life Better Than Figs.

My Thought, Whose Murder Yet Is But Fantastical, Shakes So My Single State Of Man That Function Is Smothered In Surmise, And Nothing Is But What Is Not.

Have More Than Thou Showest, Speak Less Than Thou Knowest, Lend Less Than Thou Owest.