The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.

He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.

Farewell, fair cruelty.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.

Thou unfit for any place but hell.