Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.
O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry
The latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast, Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.
He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.
Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.