If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud you again.

Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off ... Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust.

Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant can trickle when she wounds!

When you do dance, I wish you a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that.

All lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one.

For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.