Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.

Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.

For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

Is this the generation of love? Hot blood, hot thoughts and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers?

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.