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

Words to deeds cold breath gives.

Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.

To be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.

The purest treasure mortal times can afford is a spotless reputation.

I'll give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, My gay apparel for an almsman's gown, My figured goblets for a dish of wood, My scepter for a palmer's walking staff My subjects for a pair of carved saints and my large kingdom for a little grave.

Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep?