1 This nothing's more than matter.
2 We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell.
3 Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.
4 I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine.
5 Why, then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.'
6 So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood, And like a neutral to his will and matter, Did nothing.
7 Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing.
8 For thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that Fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta'en with equal thanks.
9 Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must: For women's fear and love holds quantity, In neither aught, or in extremity.
10 Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o'er to play with him.
11 In youth when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet; To contract, O, the time for, a, my behove, O methought there was nothing meet.
12 Let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose, I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits.
13 There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still, For goodness, growing to a pleurisy, Dies in his own too much.
14 O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise.
15 But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror and who else would trace him his umbrage, nothing more.
16 Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts, Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
17 Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France, Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father's death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear.
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