Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
Murder most foul, as in the best it it; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.
You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.
The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
More matter with less art.
I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.