Headstrong liberty is lashed with woe.
O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!
There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
They are hare-brain'd slaves.
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth