I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.

In the modesty of fearful duty, I read as much as from the rattling tongue of saucy and audacious eloquence.

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.

What a piece of work is a man

The Devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.