He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.

Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?

Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, therefore to be won.

When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.