This above all: to thine own self be true; / And it must follow, as the night the day, / Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, / And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, / I will be brief.

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.

The lady protests too much, methinks.

Now might I do it pat, now he is praying. / And now I’ll do’t. And so he goes to heaven; / And so am I reveng’d. That would be scann’d: / A villain kills my father, and for that / I, his sole son, do this same villain send / To heaven. O, this is hire and salary, not revenge.

Not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain convocation of politic worms are e'en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service,—two dishes, but to one table. That's the end.

No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; / Revenge should have no bounds.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak’d meats / Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Not so, my lord, I am too much i' the sun.

Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.