horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?

We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porpentine:

A little more than kin, and less than kind.