If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius: By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius: It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet: Or like a whale? Polonius: Very like a whale.

Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.

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.

I must be cruel, only to be kind.

This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.