For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give.

To sleep perchance to dream

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.

New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.

However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God.

These earthly godfathers of Heaven's lights, that give a name to every fixed star, have no more profit of their shining nights than those that walk and know not what they are.

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.