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

Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.

Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!

Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.