Is it not strange, that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's bodies!
Small to greater matters must give way.
O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.
I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
Tis not the many oaths that make the truth; But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true.
So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.