O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; / It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,— / A brother’s murder!

O Hamlet, speak no more. / Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, / And there I see such black and grained spots / As will not leave their tinct.

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.

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

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

This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

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;

O most wicked speed, to post / With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! / It is not, nor it cannot come to good. / But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable / Seem to me all the uses of this world! / Fie on’t! Oh fie! ’tis an unweeded garden / That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature / Possess it merely.