We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

. . from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.

If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her, she would infect to the north star!

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.

Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.