“I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.”

“Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One, two; why, then ‘tis time to do’t.—Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?—Yet who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him? The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?—What, will these hands ne’er be clean?—No more o’that, my lord, no more o’that: you mar all with this starting. Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!”

“I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

“I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,To share with me in glory any more:Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere;”

“Viola to Duke Orsino: 'I'll do my best To woo your lady.'[Aside.] 'Yet, a barful strife! Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.”

“O, if I say, you look upon this verse,When I perhaps compounded am with clay,Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,But let your love even with my life decay;Lest the wise world should look into your moan,And mock you with me after I am gone.”

“the fire seven times tried this;seven times tried that judgement isthat did never choose amiss some there be that shadows kiss;such have but a shadows bliss,there be fool alive, i wissilverd o'er, and so was thisTake what wife you will to bedI will ever be your head.So be gone; you are sped.”