I essentially am not in madness, but mad in craft.

If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps.

Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope.

Poor soul, the center of my sinful Earth.

Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.

The labor we delight in physics pain.

When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded, to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate— That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.

I would rather listen to my dog bark at a crow than hear a man swear that he loves me.

Let us to it pellmell. If not to Heaven, then hand in hand to Hell.