It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, "Thus diddest thou;"

If thou remeber'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov'd

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.

Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

The play's the thing.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.