“Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,You owe me no subscription: then let fallYour horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave,A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:But yet I call you servile ministers,That have with two pernicious daughters join'dYour high engender'd battles 'gainst a headSo old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul!”

“Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our teeples, drowned the cocks! You sulphurour and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man!”

“O, if I say, you look upon this verse,When I perhaps compounded am with clay,Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,But let your love even with my life decay;Lest the wise world should look into your moan,And mock you with me after I am gone.”

“Are you ready, sir?Orsino. Ay; prithee, sing. [Music] 945SONG.Feste. Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 950My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet 955On my black coffin let there be strown; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where 960Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there!Orsino. There's for thy pains.Feste. No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.Orsino. I'll pay thy pleasure then. 965Feste. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.”

“Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?Have I not in my time heard lions roar?Have I not heard the sea, puffed up with winds,Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?Have I not heard great ordinance in the field,And Heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?Have I not in a pitched battle heardLoud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang?And do you tell me of a woman's tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to hearAs will a chestnut in a farmer's fire?Tush! tush! fear boys with bugs.Grumio: For he fears none.”

“Being your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hourWhilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,Nor think the bitterness of absence sour When you have bid your servant once adieu; Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of noughtSave, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will, Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.”

“Let me hear you speak farther. I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.”