A plague on both your houses.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
He that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache
To sue to live, I find I seek to die; And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.
Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.
The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.