Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life

All that glitters is not gold.

The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.

It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold.

Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find.

Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.

I scorn you, scurvy companion.