I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more, is none

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.

So fair and foul a day I have not seen.

Infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.

Give your sorrow words. The grief that does not speak builds up softly in the heart, and bids it break.