An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition on the charge of a star!
Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?
My patience to his fury, and am arm'd to suffer, with a quietness of spirit, the very tyranny and rage of his.
The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan (40) Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood.
When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
I say there is no darkness but ignorance.