We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Give thy thoughts no tongue.
I have not slept one wink.
For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.
I am not mad; I would to heaven I were! For then, 'tis like I should forget myself; O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man.