My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.

Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet--nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.

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.

We must every one be a man of his own fancy.

He's loved of the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgement, but their eyes.

The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.

If thou dost love, proclaim it faithfully.