Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.

Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail.

The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you

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