Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.

Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.

I cannot speak your england.

This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told.

Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.

Farewell, my sister, fare thee well. The elements be kind to thee, and make Thy spirits all of comfort: fare thee well.