The head is not more native to the heart.
My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!
Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.
Presume not that I am the thing I was.
Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him; some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice.
ROSS You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors.