The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

What’s done is done.

Brevity is the soul of wit.

If music be the food of love, play on.

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em.

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.

Though this be madness, yet there is method in ’t.

To be or not to be: that is the question.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Now is the winter of our discontent.