Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won

But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.

Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.

Soft pity enters an iron gate.

For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar; and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.

The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie.

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