Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.
Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end.
Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. [Act 5, Scene 2]
Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.