Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on. Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel.
Art thou there, truepenny? You hear this fellow in the cellarage, Consent to swear.
Divinity of hell! When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, As I do now.
But earthlier happy is the rose distilled Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
I will play the swan, And die in music.
To be, or not to be: that is the question: 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? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep; To sleep; perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life;
If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain To tell my story.
This quarry cries on havoc. O proud Death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck?
When daisies pied and violets blue, And lady-smocks, all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men, for thus sings he: Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo—O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.
What need we have any friends, if we should ne'er have need of 'em? They were the most needless creatures living, if we should ne'er have use for 'em.