To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.

I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.

Be merry; you have cause, so have we all, of joy; for our escape is much beyond our loss . . . . then wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.

Polonius: Do you know me, my lord? Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.

Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her.

The prize of all too precious you.

Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.