How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.

What a piece of work is a man

To die: - to sleep: No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.

There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.

Truth is truth to the end of reckoning.

I will make a Star-chamber matter of it.