So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.

Hamlet: Lady, shall I lie in your lap? Ophelia: No, my lord. Hamlet: DId you think I meant country matters? Ophelia: I think nothing, my lord. Hamlet: That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs. Ophelia: What is, my lord? Hamlet: Nothing.

Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.

Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.