A hit, a very palpable hit.

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?

He that dies pays all debts.

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness.

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.

O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.