My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
He receives comfort like cold porridge.
Nice customs curtsy to great kings.
Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.
Look how the world's poor people are amazed at apparitions, signs and prodigies!
There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.