Hang Him, Swaggering Rascal!

Look, The World's Comforter, With Weary Gait, His Day's Hot Task Hath Ended In The West: The Owl, Night's Herald, Shrieks-'tis Very Late; The Sheep Are Gone To Fold, Birds To Their Nest; And Coal-black Clouds, That Shadow Heaven's Light, Do Summon Us To Part, And Bid Good Night.

Here Will Be An Old Abusing Of God's Patience And The King's English.

For My Grief's So Great That No Supporter But The Huge Firm Earth Can Hold It Up: Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It. (constance, From King John, Act Iii, Scene 1)

Go Hang Yourself, You Naughty Mocking Uncle!

It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury; Signifying Nothing.