Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.
There should be hours for necessities, not for delights; times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times.
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
You dull ass will not mend his pace with beating.