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We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
There's such divinity doth hedge a king,
We must speak by the card,
Alas! poor Yorick !—I knew him, Horatio ; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times ; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is ! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now ? your gambols ? your
flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar ? Not one now, to mock your own grinning ? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come ; make her laugh at that.
Let Hercules himself do what he
may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
* See also Quotations from Pericles, Prince of Tyre.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
I have shot mine arrow o'er the house,
A hit, a very palpable hit.
We cannot all be masters,
The very head and front of my offending
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances ;
She was a wight,-if ever such wight were,
O, most lame and impotent conclusion.
Let's teach ourselves that honourable stop,
I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking : I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.
Potations pottle deep.
He is a soldier, fit to stand by Cæsar,
The gravity and stillness of your youth,
Othou invisible spirit of wine ! if thou hast no name to be known by let us call thee devil !
O, that men should put an enemy in their mouths, away
Every inordinate cup is unblessed, and the ingredient is a devil.
What wound did ever heal, but by degrees ?
Men should be what they seem ;
lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls : Who steals my purse, steals trash : 'tis something,
nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands ; But he that filches from me my good name, Robs me of that, which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy ;
* Some commentators read,
The meat it feeds on."
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger ;
For I am declin'd Into the vale of years.
Trifles, light as air,
He that is robb’d, not wanting what is stolen,