Thomas Kyd

My soule, poore soule thou talkes of things/ Thou knowest not what, my soule hath sliver wings,/ That mounts me up unto the highest heavens.

Then haste we down to meet thy friends and foes; to place thy friends in ease, the rest in woes. For here though death doth end their misery, I'll there begin their endless tragedy.

Thus must we toil in other men’s extremes, that know not how to remedy our own.

What outcries pluck me from my naked bed and chill my throbbing heart with trembling fear.

As I am never better than when I am mad; then methinks I am a brave fellow; then I do wonders: but reason abuseth me, and there’s the torment, there’s the hell.

BEL-IMPERIA: Oh let me go; for in my troubled eyes, now may'st thou read that life in passion dies. HORATIO: Oh stay a while, and I will die with thee; so shalt thou yield, and yet have conquered me.

But such a war, as breaks no bonds of peace. Speak thou fair words, I'll cross them with fair words; Send thou sweet looks, I'll meet them with sweet looks; Write loving lines, I'll answer loving lines; Give me a kiss, I'll countercheck thy kiss. Be this our warring peace, or peaceful war.

Duly twice a morning would I be sprinkling it with fountain-water. At last it grew, and grew, and bore, and bore, till at the length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son, it bore thy fruit and mine: O wicked, wicked plant.

Evil news fly faster still than good.

For what’s a play without a woman in it?

He who lies upon the ground he has nothing to fall. I spent a fortune on the powers of mischief, then nothing is left to be hurt more. (Loosely Translation: He sat on the ground lies Fall can fly farther. On me, Fortune has exhausted her Power of hurting, nothing remains That can threaten me anymore . )

In time the savage bull sustains the yoke, iIn time all haggard hawks will stoop to lure, in time small wedges cleave the hardest oak, in time the flint is pierced with softest shower.

Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears; O life, no life, but lively form of death; Oh world, no world, but mass of public wrongs.

My son - and what's a song? A thing begot within a pair of minutes, thereabout, a lump bred up in darkness.

Evil news flies faster still than good.