I understand a fury in your words But not your words.

There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently

Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?

Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.

The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!