I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.

Thyself shall see the act; For, as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.

Don't judge a man's conscience by looking at his face cause he may have a bad heart.

My love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was

By Heaven, I love thee better than myself

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?

Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?