Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.

If thou remeber'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov'd

That's a valiant flea that dares eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

To be, or not to be, that is the question.