“My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,Shakes so my single state of manThat function is smothered in surmise,And nothing is but what is not.”

“When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless criesAnd look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with kings. a”

“Lady, shall I lie in your lap? Ophelia: No, my lord. Hamlet: DId you think I meant country matters? Ophelia: I think nothing, my lord. Hamlet: That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs. Ophelia: What is, my lord? Hamlet: Nothing.”

“What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyesWould, with themselves, shut up my thoughts...”

“Of France and England, did this king succeed;Whose state so many had the managing.That they lost France and made his England bleed.”

“What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night,So stumblest on my counsel?*Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*”

“Rumour is a pipeBlown by surmises, jealousies, conjecturesAnd of so easy and so plain a stopThat the blunt monster with uncounted heads,The still-discordant wavering multitude,Can play upon it.”