The play's the thing.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?

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.

A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.

Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I'll obey.

Who is here so vile that will not love his country?