Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
The purest treasure mortal times can afford is a spotless reputation.
Angels and ministers of grace defend us.
I must be cruel only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
Shall remain! Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you His absolute 'shall'?
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark
There is none but he Whose being I do fear; and under him My genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark Antony's was by Caesar.
To take arms against a sea of troubles.
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
There's never a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he's an arrant knave.
Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
He hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is perfect gallows.
Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.