Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
The nature of bad news affects the teller.
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.