Doubt thou the stars are fire; / Doubt that the sun doth move; / Doubt truth to be a liar; / But never doubt I love.
These are lines from Hamlet’s love letter to Ophelia, which Polonius reads aloud to the King and Queen. In the same letter Hamlet admits he is “ill at these numbers”, meaning poor at verse.
All the world’s a stage, / And all the men and women merely players;
Cowards die many times before their deaths; / The valiant never taste of death but once.
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings / That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, / Awake for ever in a sweet unrest.