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.

Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.

Ay me! sad hours seem long.

Alas, our frailty is the cause , not we! For, such as we are made of, such we be.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.