1 Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.
2 So your face bids me, though you say nothing.
3 Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.
4 Come, if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles.
5 No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
6 Y'are much deceiv'd: in nothing am I chang'd But in my garments.
7 Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing; do it carefully.
8 Then 'tis like the breath of an unfee'd lawyer, you gave me nothing for't.'
9 Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace; The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts.
10 There is nothing done if he return the conqueror: then am I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour.
11 Sir, there she stands: If aught within that little-seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure piec'd, And nothing more, may fitly like your grace, She's there, and she is yours.
12 Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.'