The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, / Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat / Awake the god of day;

A figure like your father, / Armed at point exactly, cap-à-pie, / Appears before them, and with solemn march / Goes slow and stately by them

For what advancement may I hope from thee, / That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits / To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d?

Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man / As e’er my conversation cop’d withal.

Horatio, I am dead, / Thou liv’st; report me and my cause aright / To the unsatisfied.

Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio.

So shall you hear / Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, / Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters, / Of deaths put on by cunning and forc’d cause, / And, in this upshot, purposes mistook / Fall’n on the inventors’ heads.

Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.