Comedies are fit for common wits: But to present a kingly troop withal, Give me a stately-written tragedy; Tragadia cothurnata, fitting kings, Containing matter, and not common things.

BEL-IMPERIA: Oh let me go; for in my troubled eyesNow may’st thou read that life in passion dies.HORATIO: Oh stay a while, and I will die with thee;So shalt thou yield, and yet have conquered...

My soule, poore soule thou talkes of things/ Thou knowest not what, my soule hath sliver wings,/ That mounts me up unto the highest heavens.

Then haste we down to meet thy friends and foes;To place thy friends in ease, the rest in woes.For here though death doth end their misery,I’ll there begin their endless tragedy.

My son – and what’s a son? A thing begot / Within a pair of minutes, thereabouts, / A lump bred up in darkness.

Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears; O life, no life, but lively form of death; Oh world, no world, but mass of public wrongs

In time the savage bull sustains the yoke, / In time all haggard hawks will stoop to lure. / In time small wedges cleave the hardest oak, / In time the flint is pierced with...

My son – and what’s a song? A thing begot within a pair of minutes, thereabout, a lump bred up in darkness.