I’ll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius: By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius: It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet: Or like a whale? Polonius: Very like a whale.

Being daily swallowed by men's eyes, They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to be seen, He was but as the cuckoo is in June. Heard, not regarded.

O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

Best men oft are moulded out of faults.

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!