Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.
I have a bone to pick with Fate
Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
Thou ominous and fearful owl of death.
A Devil, a born Devil on whose nature, nurture can never stick, on whom my pain, humanly taken, all lost, quite lost.
Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.