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

To have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.

Let the sap of reason quench the fire of passion.

That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!