I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.
Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
I shall the effect of this good lesson keeps as watchman to my heart.
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.
This above all; to thine own self be true.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!
If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.
God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
or simply:
