Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

Women's weapons, water-drops.

Thou art the Mars of malcontents.

If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father.

We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

When most I wink, then do my eyes best see

Kent. Where's the king? Gent. Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all.