I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.
We are such stuff that dreams are made of.
Our wills and fates do so contrary run.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
Wisely, I say, I am a bachelor.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.