What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.

By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses.

Few love to hear the sins they love to act.

If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.

O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!