For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!

Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.

We are such stuff that dreams are made of.

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness.

Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition

It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.

She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.