'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.
Act iii. Sc. 3.
O my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
Act iii. Sc. 4.
Look here, upon this picture, and on this;
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See what a grace was seated on this brow!
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command.
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man.
Act iii. Sc. 4.
A king Of shreds and patches.
Act iii. Sc. 4.
This is the very coinage of your brain.