Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.

What's his offense? Groping for trout in a peculiar river.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

There is a devilish mercy in the judge, if you'll implore it, that will free your life, but fetter you till death.

The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.

I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap