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

Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil

For thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade.

Strong reasons make strong actions.

Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven