Our virtues Lie in th' interpretation of the time.

We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.

Give to a gracious message An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.

True nobility is exempt from fear.

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.

Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

When the age is in, the wit is out.

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.