The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon! Where got'st thou that goose look?
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he to day that sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother.
Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life, and, to be short, what not that's sweet and happy.
So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.
Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep—the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, (40) Chief nourisher in life's feast.
O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.