Jesters Do Oft Prove Prophets.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

I'll Privily Away; I Love The People, But Do Not Like To Stage Me To Their Eyes; Though It Do Well, I Do Not Relish Well Their Loud Applause And Aves Vehement, Nor Do I Think The Man Of Safe Discretion That Does Not Affect It.

If I Can Catch Him Once Upon The Hip, I Will Feed Fat The Ancient Grudge I Bear Him.

When Words Are Scarce They Are Seldom Spent In Vain.