Conscience is a blushing, shamefaced spirit than mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles.

Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.

Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity

Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was the very day that young Hamlet was born, he that is mad and sent into England." "Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?" "Why, because he was mad. He shall recover his wits there, or, if he do not, it's no great matter there." "Why?" "'Twill not be seen in him there. There the men are as mad as he.

The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.