Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!

Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.

To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.

The fear's as bad as falling.

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.