Those that much covet are with gain so fond, For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less; Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.

Nothing comes from doing nothing.

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!

Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream

What is thy sentence then but speechless death.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

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