My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.
Presume not that I am the thing I was.
If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death.
Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
Ingrateful man with liquorish draughts, and morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind that from it all consideration slips.