William Shakespeare: : The Complete Works

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

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

Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.

brevity is the soul of wit,

This above all: to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Murder most foul,

let your haste commend your duty.

I am but mad north-north-west.