William Shakespeare. 

"The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmar".                                       

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Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;

And there I see such black and grained spots

Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting,

That would not let me sleep: me thought I lay

Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly,

And praised be rashness for it, let us know,

Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,

When our deep plots do pall: and that should teach us

O, from this time forth,

My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!

Exit

I could be bounded in a nut shell and count

myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I

have bad dreams.