O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?

Misery makes sport to mock itself.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.

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.

Love is too young to know what conscience is.

He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.