Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

And do as adversaries do in law, strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?

Farewell, fair cruelty.

When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!