Short summers lightly have a forward spring.
Rouse him:—make after him, poison his delight, Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen, And, though he in a fertile climate dwell, Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy, Yet throw such changes of vexation.
Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife, No more shall cut his master.
O, then, what graces in my love do dwell,. That he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell!
Marcellus. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.  Horatio.
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
Thou frothy tickle-brained hedge-pig!