O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?

They are in the very wrath of love, and they will go together. Clubs cannot part them

What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.

It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance