For a noble heart, the most precious gift becomes poor, when the giver stops loving.

It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.

O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.

When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.

One man in his time plays many parts.

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

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: today he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And - when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening - nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.