I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
O villains, vipers, dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?
The king's name is a tower of strength.
Every inordinate cup is unbless'd, and the ingredient is a devil.
I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.