Say she rail; why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word; Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.

My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.

To sleep perchance to dream

Nothing 'gainst Times scythe can make defence.

Take it in what sense thou wilt.

You are an alchemist; make gold of that.