This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.

There's nothing in this world can make me joy.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.

Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.

We came into the world like brother and brother, And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.