His life was gentle and the elements So mixed in him that nature might stand up.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause.
Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety.
Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard,A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of DenmarkIs by a forged process of my deathRankly abused: but know, thou noble youth,The serpent that did sting thy father's lifeNow wears his crown.
Good madonna, give me leave toprove you a fool.
From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:They are the ground, the books, the academes,From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.
The truth you speak doth lack some gentlenessAnd time to speak it in. You rub the soreWhen you should bring the plaster.
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