Now is the winter of our discontent.
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.
I may command where I adore.
Most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.
Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?