Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.

The commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts.

He does it with better grace, but I do it more natural.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

So fair and foul a day i had not seen.

That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimms, and makes it indistinct As water is in water

Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.