O, but they say, the tongues of dying men enforce attention, like deep harmony: where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain: for they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain. he, that no more must say, is listened more than they whom youth and ease have taught to gloze; more are men's ends marked, than their lives before: the setting sun, and music at the close, as the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last; writ in rememberance more than things long past

Thou unfit for any place but hell.

Avaunt, you cullions!

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.

Is it possible that love should of a sudden take such a hold?

POLONIUS: What do you read, my lord? HAMLET: Words, words, words.

I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.