Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
I hold my peace, sir? no; No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.
... by indirections find directions out.
Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.
Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court.