My wits begin to turn.

Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

Misery makes sport to mock itself.

Nature does require her time of preservation, which perforce, I her frail son amongst my brethren mortal, must give my attendance to.

This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions; these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion.

Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently.