O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.

Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

Love reasons without reason.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.

Is this government of Britain's Isle, and this the royalty of Albion's King?