Season your admiration for a while.

O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.

Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low.

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud.

Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, (135) Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: (140) So excellent a king; that was, to this.

Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion