For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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.
The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!
But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?
Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, (135) Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: (140) So excellent a king; that was, to this.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
The Devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
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
I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise.
Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.
All's well that ends well.
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.
After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
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