This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions; these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion.

The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.

Every subject's duty is the Kings, but every subject's soul is his own.

Who is here so vile that will not love his country?

Nothing can come of nothing.

Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quenched them hath given me fire.