I Cannot Do It Without Comp[u]ters.

Sorrow Breaks Seasons And Reposing Hours, Makes The Night Morning, And The Noontide Night.

A Plague On Both Your Houses.

No Beast So Fierce But Knows Some Touch Of Pity. But I Know None, And Therefore Am No Beast.

Fight, Gentlemen Of England! Fight, Bold Yeomen! Draw, Archers, Draw Your Arrows To The Head! Spur Your Proud Horses Hard, And Ride In Blood; Amaze The Welkin With Your Broken Staves!

[s]ince Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit, And Tediousness The Limbs And Outward Flourishes, I Will Be Brief.