Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee.
To take arms against a sea of troubles.
Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Angels and ministers of grace defend us.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
I must be cruel only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.
