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?

The chameleon Love can feed on the air

I thank you all and here dismiss you all, and to the love and favor of my country commit myself, my person, and the cause.

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.

That's a valiant flea that dares eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.