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One woe doth tread upon another's heel,
So fast they follow.?

Hamlet. Act iv. Sc. 7.
Nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will.

Ibid. 1 Clo. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

2 Clo. But is this law ?
1 Clo. Ay, marry, is 't; crowner's quest law.

Act v. Sc. 1. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners. Ibid. Cudgel thy brains no more about it.

Ibid. Has this fellow no feeling of his business?

Ibid. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.

Ibid. The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

Ibid. A politician, one that would circumvent God.

Ibid. Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer ? Where be his quiddities now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks ?

Ibid. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's dead.



How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us.

The age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe.


1 Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave. HERRICK : Sorrows Succeed.

Woes cluster; rare are solitary woes;
They love a train, they tread each other's heel.

Young : Night Thoughts, night iii. line 63. And woe succeeds to woe. – Pope: The Iliad, book xri. line 139.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio : a fellow of infinite jest, of inost excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is ! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now; your gambols, your songs ? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar ? Not one now, to mock your own grinning ? Quite chap-fallen ? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.

Ilamlet. Act v. Sc. 1. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till we find it stopping a bung-hole ?

Ibid. ’T were to consider too curiously, to consider so. Ibid. Imperious Cæsar, dead and turn’d to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.

Ibid. Lay her i’ the earth : And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring ! 1

Ibid. A ministering angel shall my sister be.2

Ibid. Sweets to the sweet: farewell !

Ibid. I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy grave.

Ibid. Though I am not splenitive and rash, Yet have I something in me dangerous.

Ibid. Forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum.


1 And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.

TENNYSON : In Memoriam, rriii. 2 A ministering angel thou. - Scott : Marmion, canto vi. st. 30.

Nay, an thou ’lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou.

Hamlet. Act v. Sc. 1.

Let Hercules himself do what he may,
The cat will mew and dog will have his day.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."

Sc. 2. I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair.

Ibid. It did me yeoman's service.

Ibid. The bravery of his grief did put me Into a towering passion.

Ibid. What imports the nomination of this gentleman ? Ibid.

The phrase would be more german to the matter, if we could carry cannon by our sides.

Ibid. 'T is the breathing time of day with me.

Ibid. There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 't is not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is 't to leave betimes ?

I have shot mine arrow o'er the house,
And hurt


Ibid. Now the king drinks to Hamlet.

Ibid. A hit, a very palpable hit.

Ibid. This fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest.

Ibid. Report me and my cause aright.


1 But they that are above Have ends in everything. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER : The Maid's Tragedy, act u. sc. 4.

I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.

Hamlet. Act c. Sc. 2. Absent thee from felicity awhile.


The rest is silence.


Although the last, not least.

King Lear. Act i. Sc. 1. Nothing will come of nothing.

Ibid. Mend your speech a little, Lest it may mar your fortunes.

Ibid. I want that glib and oily art, To speak and purpose not.

Ibid. A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I have not.

Ibid. Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides. Ibid.

As if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion.

Sc, 2. That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in; and the best of me is diligence.

Sc. 4. Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend !

Ibid. How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child !

Ibid. Striving to better, oft we mar what's well.

Ibid. Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow, Thy element’s below.

Act ii, Sc. 4. Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her confine.

Ibid. Necessity's sharp pinch!

Ibid. Let not women's weapons, water-drops, Stain my man's cheeks!

Ibid. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks ! rage! blow!

Act ii. Sc. 2. I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. Ibid.

A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.

King Lear. Act iii. Sc. 2. There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.

Ibid. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes, Unwhipp'd of justice.


I am a man More sinn'd against than sinning.

Ibid. Oh, that way madness lies; let me shun that. Sc. 4. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these ?

Ibid. Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel.

Ibid. Out-paramoured the Turk.

Ibid. 'T is a naughty night to swim in.

Ibid. The green mantle of the standing pool.

Ibid. But mice and rats, and such small deer, Have been Tom's food for seven long year.

Ibid. The prince of darkness is a gentleman.

Ibid. Poor Tom's a-cold.

Ibid. I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban. Ibid. Child Rowland to the dark tower came, His word was still, Fie, foh, and fum, I smell the blood of a British man.

Ibid. The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me.

Sc. 6.

1 The prince of darkness is a gentleman. – SUCKLING: The Goblins.

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