For what advancement may I hope from thee, / That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits / To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d?

Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man / As e’er my conversation cop’d withal.

No, good mother, here's metal more attractive.

Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year. But by’r lady, he must build churches then;

What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within's two hours.

No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i' th' world.

As woman's love.

Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better.

Ecstasy! / My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time, / And makes as healthful music. It is not madness / That I have utter’d.

See what a grace was seated on this brow, / Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, / An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, / A station like the herald Mercury / New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill