What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

Thy friendship makes us fresh.

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.

An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.

There is nothing so confining as the prisons of our own perceptions.