Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

Cowards die many times before their deaths;The valiant never taste of death but once.

He which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart, his passport shall be made and crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship, to die with us.

An envious feverOf pale and bloodless emulation.

The moon's an arrant thief,And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

Our doubts are traitors,
and make us lose the good we oft might win,
by fearing to attempt.