or;
but 'tis enough.

Act iii. Sc. 3.

Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy

Act iii. Sc. 5.

Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops.

Act iv. Sc. 2.

Not stopping o'er the bounds of modesty.

Act v. Sc. I.

My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne.

Act v. Sc. 1.

A beggarly account of empty boxes.

Act v. Sc. 1.

My poverty, but not my will, consents.

Act v. Sc. 3.

Beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale flag is not advanced there.

Act v. Sc. 3.

Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace!

* * * * *

HAMLET.

Act i. Sc. 1.

This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

Act i. Sc. 1.

In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.

Act i. Sc. 1.

And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons.

Act i. Sc. 1.

Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long.
And then they say no spirit dares stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

Act i. Sc. 2.

The head is not more native to the heart.

Act i. Sc. 2.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

Act i, Sc. 2.

Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems

Act i. Sc. 2.

But I have that within which passeth show;
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.

Act i. Sc. 2.

O that this too, too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!

* * * * *

That it should come to this!
Hyperion to a satyr! so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly.

* * * * *

Why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on.

* * * * *

Frailty, thy name is woman!
A little month.

* * * * *

Like Niobe, all tears.

*