Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.

We are such stuff that dreams are made of.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, Doth half that glory to the sober west, As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O! let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack

Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.

O villains, vipers, dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!