Oh, I Am Fortune's Fool!

The Color Of The King Doth Come And Go, Between His Purpose And His Conscience, Like Heralds 'twixt Two Dreadful Battles Set: His Passion Is So Ripe, It Needs Must Break.

By The Pricking Of My Thumbs, Something Wicked This Way Comes.

Who Alone Suffers Suffers Most I' Th' Mind, Leaving Free Things And Happy Shows Behind; But Then The Mind Much Sufferance Doth O'erskip When Grief Hath Mates, And Bearing Fellowship.

The Miserable Have No Other Medicine But Only Hope.

So Musical A Discord, Such Sweet Thunder.