The Insolence Of Office.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand?

To Wilful Men, The Injuries That They Themselves Procure Must Be Their Schoolmasters.

I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book!

There's Little Of The Melancholy Element In Her, My Lord: She Is Never Sad But When She Sleeps; And Not Ever Sad Then; For I Have Heard My Daughter Say, She Hath Often Dreamt Of Unhappiness, And Waked Herself With Laughing.

The Time Is Out Of Joint : O Cursed Spite, That Ever I Was Born To Set It Right!