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They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!

You may my glories and my state depose, But not my griefs; still am I king of those.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.

O gentlemen! the time of life is short; To spend that shortness basely were too long, If life did ride upon a dial's point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour.

But words are words; I never did hear That the bruised heart was pierced through the ear.

That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

I do not much dislike the matter, but The manner of his speech.

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause.

The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, But in ourselves if we are underlings.