All soils are not fertile.

All soils are not fertile.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions: first, her father slain;
Next, your read more

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions: first, her father slain;
Next, your son gone, and he most violent author
Of his own just remove; the people muddied,
Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers
For good Polonius' death, and we have done but greenly
In hugger-mugger to inter him; poor Ophelia
Divided from herself and her fair judgment,
Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts;
Last, and as much containing as all these,
Her brother is in secret come from France,
Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With pestilent speeches of his father's death,
Wherein necessity, of matter beggared,
Will nothing stick our person to arraign
In ear and ear.

Great things rush to the destruction of each other.

Great things rush to the destruction of each other.

It was intended to be a vase, it has turned out a pot.

It was intended to be a vase, it has turned out a pot.

The sonne full and tattered, the daughter empty and fine.

The sonne full and tattered, the daughter empty and fine.

My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent
without hope.

My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent
without hope.

Your knowing a thing is nothing, unless another knows you know
it.

Your knowing a thing is nothing, unless another knows you know
it.

Great strokes make not sweete musick.

Great strokes make not sweete musick.

Everyone puts his fault on the Times.

Everyone puts his fault on the Times.