Thou mad mustachio purple-hued maltworms!
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.
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
Thus do I ever make my fool my purse.
What light through yonder window breaks?
Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow's shadow.