Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!
Now is the winter of our discontent.
To Thine Ownself be True.
I am sure my love's more ponderous than my tongue.
Screw your courage to the sticking-place.
O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.