Polonius: Do you know me, my lord? Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

The hideous god of war.

Be not too tame neither, but let your own Discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action.

Every why has a wherefore.

This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.