Kent. Where's the king? Gent. Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all.

O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.

Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.

Oh, flatter me; for love delights in praises.

I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.

My soul is in the sky.