What A Piece Of Work Is A

A Poor Thing, Perhaps, But My Own.

Tis Time To Fear When Tyrants Seem To Kiss.

I Have Not Slept One Wink.

This Rough Magic I Here Abjure And When I Have Required Some Heavenly Music, Which Even Now I Do, To Work Mine End Upon Their Senses That This Airy Charm Is For, I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book.

If It Will Feed Nothing Else, It Will Feed My Revenge.