The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.

Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.

Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

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

But the strong base and building of my love is as the very centre of the earth, drawing all things to it.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Ha! Not she: nor doth she tempt: but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season.