The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

Our doubts are traitors And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt.

... by indirections find directions out.

And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?

What a piece of work is man!

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart?

In nature's infinite book of secrecy A little I can read.

... though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.

Go to your bosom; Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know ...

To sleep: perchance to dream.