O, full of scorpions is my mind!
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Hold, or cut bowstrings.
See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!
I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.