A plague on both your houses.

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.

You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame

I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.