We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.

If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.

I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.

I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.

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

For man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.