William Shakespeare: : The Complete Works

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

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

Murder most foul,

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.

I am but mad north-north-west.

Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

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.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.