Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

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

Hate pollutes the mind.

Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you

The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.