O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.
So loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven, Visit her face' too roughly.
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list!
All is well that ends well
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life
A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm
POLONIUS: What do you read, my lord? HAMLET: Words, words, words.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
For to define true madness, What is't but to be nothing else but mad?
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below
This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought
He that plays the king shall be welcome- his Majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle o' th' sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt fort.
Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake.
Shakespeare said: "There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow." Everything happens perfectly.
All's well that ends well.
After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life.
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise.
To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune, Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles, And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep No more; and by a sleep, to say we end The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep, To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub.
I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
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