Had he not resembled / My father as he slept, I had done’t.—

To show an unfelt sorrow is an office / Which the false man does easy.

The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood / Is stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d.

What should be spoken here, where our fate, / Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? / Let’s away. Our tears are not yet brew’d.

There’s warrant in that theft / Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left.

But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to th' everlasting bonfire.

The obscure bird / Clamour’d the live-long night. Some say the earth / Was feverous, and did shake.

In the great hand of God I stand; and thence / Against the undivulg’d pretence I fight / Of treasonous malice.

Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.

And Duncan’s horses (a thing most strange and certain) / Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, / Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, / Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make / War with mankind.