So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.
Why what a fool was I to this drunken monster for a God. - Caliban
Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
What: is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful?