Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

Best men oft are moulded out of faults.

The rest, is silence.

All's well if all ends well.

What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.

Do you take me for a sponge, my lord? hamlet: Ay, sir; that soaks up the king's countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again. rosencrantz: I understand you not, my lord. hamlet: I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.