Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.
Thou weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath.
Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man.
Truth will come to sight; murder cannot be hid long.