Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.

Time travels at different speeds for different people. I can tell you who time strolls for, who it trots for, who it gallops for, and who it stops cold for.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.

Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a seive.

I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.