The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in't!
I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
For she had eyes and chose me.
Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.