Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?

Hereditary sloth instructs me.

There is Throats to be cut, and Works to be done.

I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.

There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.

I do beseech you- Though I perchance am vicious in my guess , that your wisdom yet From one that so imperfectly conjects Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance.

Tis a happy thing To be the father unto many sons.