We were not born to sue, but to command.

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life

Is this government of Britain's Isle, and this the royalty of Albion's King?

Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat; Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.

You have witchcraft in your lips