That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure.
The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.
Thou didst drink The stale of horses and the gilded puddle That beasts would cough at.
Conrade. Away! You are an ass, you are an ass. Dogberry. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years?
Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owed'st yesterday.
This blessèd plot, this earth, this realm, this England This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, . . . This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land.
When wilt thou leave fighting o' days and foining o' nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven?
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber. Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.
The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited.
What a pair of spectacles is here!