Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father.
thou art the best o' the cut-throats