Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care.

Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death.

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

Love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake.

Seems," madam? Nay, it is; I know not "seems." 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.