But I have that within which passeth show; / These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, / But in battalions.

Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.

Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, / Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.

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

So excellent a king; that was to this / Hyperion to a satyr;

Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, / Th’imperial jointress to this warlike state, / Have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy, / With one auspicious and one dropping eye, / With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage, / In equal scale weighing delight and dole, / Taken to wife;