Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.

I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)

When rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will

Why, who cries out on pride that can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea till the weary very means do ebb?

For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.

Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; With them forgive yourself.