My love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was
Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves.
A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.
'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.
Cry "havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.