O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court.

Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly.

We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.

Being of no power to make his wishes good: His promises fly so beyond his state That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes For every word.

O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!