Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

Polonius: Do you know me, my lord? Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.

And nothing is, but what is not.

Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well. Awake.