'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.

How hard it is for women to keep counsel!

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.

That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimms, and makes it indistinct As water is in water

O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

To be, or not to be, that is the question.