The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself

Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius: By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius: It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet: Or like a whale? Polonius: Very like a whale.

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.

I am a feather for each wind that blows

I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.