Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine.

Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.

Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.

This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.

Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.

Man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured.

The prize of all too precious you.