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That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it; For who digs hills because they do aspire Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher.

The mountain was in labour, and Jove was afraid, but it brought forth a mouse.

Murder most foul, as in the best it is, But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.

'A took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven?

No place indeed should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds.

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.

Blood hath been shed ere now, i' th' olden time, Ere humane stature purged the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been performed Too terrible for the ear. The time has been That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end. But now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools. This is more strange Than such a murder is.

Erroneous vassals! the great King of Kings Hath in the table of his law commanded That thou shalt do no murder. Will you then Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man's?

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

Prithee, friend, Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, The good and the bad together: he's friends with Caesar, In state of health, thou say'st, and thou say'st, free.

Ram thou fruitful tidings in mine ears, That long time have been barren.

Though it be honest, it is never good To bring bad news; give to a gracious message An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.

Here come Monsieur Le Beau. With his mouth full of news. Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young. Then shall we be news-crammed.

If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still.

There's villainous news abroad.

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news Hath but a losing office, and his tongue Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, Rememb'red tolling a departing friend.

And tidings do I bring and lucky joys And golden times and happy news of price. I pray thee now, deliver them like a man of this world.