Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads.
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold.
Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne'er turns the key151 to the poor.
Our wills and fates do so contrary run, that our devices still are overthrown; our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.
Speak to me as to thy thinkings As thou dost ruminate and give thy worst of thoughts The worst of words.
Let me have war, say I: it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men.
Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words.
Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art as great as that thou fear'st.