They are hare-brain'd slaves.

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful I take up what's cast away. Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect My love should kindle to inflamed respect. Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Can buy this unprized precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: Thou losest here, a better where to find.

To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

Nothing can come of nothing.

And when love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes Heaven drowsy with the harmony.

Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.