There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.

But men are men; the best sometimes forget.

Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink: if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy shee.

This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,--This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.

What? do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes

Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a seive.