The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, / And these are of them.

The Prince of Cumberland!—That is a step / On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap, / For in my way it lies.

Nothing in his life / Became him like the leaving it; he died / As one that had been studied in his death, / To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d / As ’twere a careless trifle.

Thou wouldst be great; / Art not without ambition, but without / The illness should attend it.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men / May read strange matters.

This even-handed justice / Commends th’ ingredience of our poison’d chalice / To our own lips.

But in these cases / We still have judgement here; that we but teach / Bloody instructions, which being taught, return / To plague th’ inventor.

So I lose none / In seeking to augment it, but still keep / My bosom franchis’d, and allegiance clear, / I shall be counsell’d.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible / To feeling as to sight? or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

The sleeping and the dead / Are but as pictures. ’Tis the eye of childhood / That fears a painted devil.