Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool Are thou to break into this woman's mood, Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!
O sir, you are old; Nature in you stands on the very verge Of his confine.
Give me a staff of honor for mine age, But not a sceptre to control the world.
You have begot me, bred me, loved me. I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honor you.
She cannot love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endeared.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. I know, to be up late is to be up late. Sir Toby Belch. A false conclusion. I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is early; so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes.
All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven 'Tis gone. Arise, black vengeance, from the hollow hell!
Your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation.
Seems, madam? Nay, it is. I know not "seems". 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good Mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly. These indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play. But I have that within which passes show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, ... Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly.