To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.
She speaks, my lord, that may be, hath endured a grief Might equal yours, if both were justly weighed.
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden.
Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.
Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.