My Hands Are Of Your Color, But

Knit Your Hearts With An Unslipping Knot.

Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself.

Beauty Within Itself Should Not Be Wasted.

We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of.

Myself--a Prince By Fortune Of My Birth, Near To The King In Blood, And Near In Love Till You Did Make Him Misinterpret Me-- Have Stooped My Neck Under Your Injuries And Sighed My English Breath In Foreign Clouds, Eating The Bitter Bread Of Banishment, Whilst You Have Fed Upon My Signories, Disparked My Parks And Felled My Forest Woods, From My Own Windows Torn My Household Coat, Rased Out My Imprese, Leaving Me No Sign, Save Men's Opinions And My Living Blood, To Show The World I Am A Gentleman.