What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?

To unpathed waters, undreamed shores.

in black ink my love may still shine bright.

A cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in 't.

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

You abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.

Foul whisperings are abroad