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!

Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others' eyes to spread itself.

Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.

This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!

Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall with our English dead.