Thou unfit for any place but hell.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.

Love moderately; long love doth so; too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.

She is a woman, therefore to be won.

Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.