Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
We cannot fight for love, as men may do; we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo
Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.
Time ... thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.
My father names me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.