No, I Will Be The Pattern Of

So Weary With Disasters, Tugg'd With Fortune, That I Would Set My Life On Any Chance, To Mend, Or Be Rid On't.

We Do Not Keep The Outward Form Of Order, Where There Is Deep Disorder In The Mind.

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

As Chaste As Is The Bud Ere It Be Blown.

I Have More Care To Stay Than Will To Go.