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

Sweets to the sweet. Farewell.

Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, / Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.

I lov’d Ophelia; forty thousand brothers / Could not, with all their quantity of love, / Make up my sum.

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once.

Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.

Let Hercules himself do what he may, / The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?

To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bung-hole?

Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her own salvation?