O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

He kills her in her own humor.

In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.

But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?