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

There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.

For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.

Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curl'd pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon, — for it shines bright, and never changes, but keeps his course truly.

The instruments of darkness tell us truths.

Woe to that land that's governed by a child.