But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.

I am ill at these numbers.

My father names me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, (135) Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: (140) So excellent a king; that was, to this.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.

The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.