The play's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king

Some say that ever 'gainst the season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor wi

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.

I will do such things,--
What they are, yet I know not: but they shall be
The terrors of the earth.

With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?

Yet I am doubtful, for I am mainly ignorant. What place this is, and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments. Nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,
For as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.