In the modesty of fearful duty, I read as much as from the rattling tongue of saucy and audacious eloquence.

Glendower: I can call the spirits from the vasty deep. Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come, when you do call for them?

The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd

GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .

The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise, in such a night.

I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

Men at sometime are the masters of their fate.