Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?

I do love nothing in the world so well as you- is not that strange?

The best is yet to come.

Things may serve long, but not serve ever.

To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.

The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.