To take arms against a sea of troubles.
Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, Contagious blastments are are most imminent.
What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.
No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
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