Hamlet: Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me!
You would play upon me, you would seem to know my stops, you would pluck out the heart of my mystery, you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak.
Hamlet: It is now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.
King: Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage, for we will fetters put about this fear, which now goes too free-footed.
Rosencrantz: We will haste us.
“It rained and then snowed. I wrote letters through the blurred afternoons, embryonic queries on the nature of silence and time, notes really, laconic and hopeful, ready for bottling, and I mailed them to friends and former teachers, to people back home, to self-possessed young women in prospering colleges”
“The days seemed even longer than the incandescent days of summer. Mrs. Tom died finally after remaining in a coma for several weeks.”
Hamlet, William Shakespeare
End Zone, Don DeLillo