Cry "havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Things in motion sooner catch the eye than what not stirs.

All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?