Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.

Angels and ministers of grace defend us.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

Man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.