I am ill at these numbers.

I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list!

What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!

For this relief, much thanks

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.

For you and I are past our dancing days.