I hate your logic like I hate an empty wine goblet.
Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my sick muse doth give another place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen.
Thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends, stolen forth of holy writ, and seem a saint when most I play the devil.
Something's rotten in Denmark.