Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears: But yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman will be out. — Adieu, my lord! I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly drowns it.

Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.

O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!

Assume a virtue if you have it not.

And when love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes Heaven drowsy with the harmony.

Give it an understanding, but no tongue.

Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.