O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells

Honor's Thought Reigns Solely In The Breast Of Every Man.

With These Shreds They Vented Their Complainings, Which Being Answered And A Petition Granted Them, A Strange One, To Break The Heart Of Generosity, And Make Bold Power Look Pale, They Threw Their Caps As They Would Hang Them On The Horns O' Th' Moon, Shouting Their Emulation.

Can One Desire Too Much Of A Good Thing?

The Thane Of Cawdor Lives, A Prosperous Gentleman; And To Be King Stands Not Within The Prospect Of Belief, No More Than To Be Cawdor.

O You Beast! I'll So Maul You And Your Toasting-iron, That You Shall Think The Devil Is Come From Hell.