My son – and what's a son? A thing begot Within a pair of minutes, thereabout: A lump bred up in darkness.
Act III, sc. xia
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.
Act III, sc. xiia
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.