Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our teeples, drowned the cocks! You sulphurour and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man!

In springtime, the only pretty ring time Birds sing, hey ding A-ding, a-ding Sweet lovers love the spring—

I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.

Men must learn now with pity to dispense; For policy sits above conscience.

I do begin to have bloody thoughts.

Sin will pluck on sin.

I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)