Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Harp not on that. that’s neither here nor there. Young man, have you challeng’d Charles the wrestler? Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I do. Look, here comes the Duke. More, more, I prithee, more. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ th’ forest, A motley fool. I’ll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i’ th’ country; for you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.

I have not slept one wink. that’s neither here nor there. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch Of the rang’d empire fall! Here is my space. Kingdoms are clay; Young man, have you challeng’d Charles the wrestler? O unhappy youth! Come not within these doors; within this roof The enemy of all your graces lives. But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. I think he be transform’d into a beast; For I can nowhere find him like a man. I’ll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i’ th’ country; for you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.

It was Greek to me. To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him as he lay along Under an oak whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood! To the which place a poor sequest’red stag, That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt, Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heav’d forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting; and the big round tears Cours’d one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on th’ extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears. ‘Good morrow, fool,’ quoth I; ‘No, sir,’ quoth he, ‘Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.’ Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness; glad of other men’s good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Harp not on that. that’s neither here nor there. Young man, have you challeng’d Charles the wrestler? Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I do. Look, here comes the Duke. More, more, I prithee, more. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ th’ forest, A motley fool. I’ll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i’ th’ country; for you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.

I have not slept one wink. that’s neither here nor there. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch Of the rang’d empire fall! Here is my space. Kingdoms are clay; Young man, have you challeng’d Charles the wrestler? O unhappy youth! Come not within these doors; within this roof The enemy of all your graces lives. But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. I think he be transform’d into a beast; For I can nowhere find him like a man. I’ll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i’ th’ country; for you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.

It was Greek to me. To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him as he lay along Under an oak whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood! To the which place a poor sequest’red stag, That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt, Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heav’d forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting; and the big round tears Cours’d one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on th’ extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears. ‘Good morrow, fool,’ quoth I; ‘No, sir,’ quoth he, ‘Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.’ Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness; glad of other men’s good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.