Murder most foul, as in the best it it; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

The man that hath no music in himself

For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!

Fortune reigns in gifts of the world.

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.