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.

As he was valiant, I honour him. But as he was ambitious, I slew him.

Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.

A young man married is a man that's marred.

Every offense is not a hate at first.

Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!

And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach, Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.