Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.

She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.

I'll look to like; if looking, liking move.

Who is it can read a woman?

False face must hide what the false heart doth know.