Do not forget. This visitation / Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.

How now? A rat? [_Draws._] / Dead for a ducat, dead!

Not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain convocation of politic worms are e'en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service,—two dishes, but to one table. That's the end.

O, from this time forth, / My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, / But in battalions.

Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.

Her clothes spread wide, / And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up, / Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes, / As one incapable of her own distress, / Or like a creature native and indued / Unto that element.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, / That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream. / There with fantastic garlands did she make / Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, / That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, / But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.

No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; / Revenge should have no bounds.