We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are

Then Know, That I Have Little Wealth To Lose. A Man I Am, Crossed With Adversity; My Riches Are These Poor Habiliments, Of Which If You Should Here Disfurnish Me, You Take The Sum And Substance That I Have.

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.

A Light Wife Doth Make A Heavy Husband.

The Very Substance Of The Ambitious Is Merely The Shadow Of A Dream.

Like Patience Gazing On Kings' Graves, And Smiling Extremity Out Of Act.