If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.
Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?
Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service
We must follow, not force Providence.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate