You have but mistook me all the while... I live by bread like you, taste grief, feel want, need friends. Conditioned thus how can you call me king?

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.

Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!

Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

My friends were poor, but honest, so's my love.

Things are often spoke and seldom meant.