O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?

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

Through the forest have I gone. But Athenian found I none, On whose eyes I might approve This flower's force in stirring love. Night and silence.--Who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear: This is he, my master said, Despised the Athenian maid; And here the maiden, sleeping sound, On the dank and dirty ground. Pretty soul! she durst not lie Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I throw All the power this charm doth owe. When thou wakest, let love forbid Sleep his seat on thy eyelid: So awake when I am gone; For I must now to Oberon.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning

Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.