What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.
How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily... is wasteful and ridiculous excess
Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me
Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
Misery makes sport to mock itself.