William Shakespeare: : The Complete Works

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.

brevity is the soul of wit,

I am but mad north-north-west.

The funeral bak’d meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

Murder most foul,

This above all: to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

It seems it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion.