Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.

Men of few words are the best men." (3.2.41)

Now is the winter of our discontent.

For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.

To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy.

And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain