'Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world |
'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall. |
'Tis such fools as you that makes the world full of ill-favour'd children. |
'Tis the mind that makes the body rich. |
'Tis the soldier's life to have their balmy slumbers waked with strife. |
'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead the blind. |
. . . I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like molten lead. |
. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself; it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest. |
. . . there have been many great men that have flattered the people, who ne'er loved them; and there be many that they have loved, they know not wherefore: so that if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground. |
...the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which. |
A deed of dreadful note. |
A deed without a name. |
A dish fit for the gods. |
A dream itself is but a shadow. |
A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off |