William Shakespeare: : The Complete Works

brevity is the soul of wit,

let your haste commend your duty.

It seems it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion.

Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

Murder most foul,

The play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.

I am but mad north-north-west.

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

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.