When he speaks,The air, a chartered libertine, is still.

The press is like the air, a chartered libertine.

And when love speaks, the voice of all the godsMakes heaven drowsy with the harmony.

But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air.

[He] speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them; and when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair:Hover through the fog and filthy air.