By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court.