By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

Nothing can seem foul to those who win.

Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. *Here’s what love is: a smoke made out of lovers' sighs. When the smoke clears, love is a fire burning in your lover’s eyes. If you frustrate love, you get an ocean made out of lovers' tears. What else is love? It’s a wise form of madness. It’s a sweet lozenge that you choke on.*

The time is out of joint.

Time and the hour run through the roughest day.

Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.