Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
He is as full of valor as of kindness. Princely in both.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so.
The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell ... Or say with princes if it shall go well.