O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven

Too nice, and yet too true!

My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.

Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.

Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.

Murder most foul, as in the best it it; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

All his successors gone before him have done 't; and all his ancestors that come after him may.