Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive / Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, / And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, / To prick and sting her.

My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber, / Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd, / No hat upon his head, his stockings foul'd, / Ungart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle, / Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, / And with a look so piteous in purport / As if he had been loosed out of hell / To speak of horrors, he comes before me.

This is the very ecstasy of love, / Whose violent property fordoes itself, / And leads the will to desperate undertakings, / As oft as any passion under heaven / That does afflict our natures.

Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.

I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.

Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?

O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! / The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword, / Th’expectancy and rose of the fair state, / The glass of fashion and the mould of form, / Th’observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down!

Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend / Which is the mightier.

The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body. The King is a thing—

Her speech is nothing, / Yet the unshaped use of it doth move / The hearers to collection; they aim at it, / And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts,