I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.
If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in mine arms.
A ministering angel shall my sister be.
The gloomy shade of death.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.