William Shakespeare: : The Complete Works

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

Murder most foul,

The play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.

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

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

I am but mad north-north-west.

let your haste commend your duty.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

brevity is the soul of wit,