To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
No place indeed should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds.
God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
From this time forth
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil!
Conscience, and grace, to the profoundest pit!
I dare damnation: To this point I stand,--
That both the worlds I give to negligence,
Let come what comes; only I'll be reveng'd.
One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
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
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.
The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!
Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.
To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life.
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?
Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane,
Drink off this potion!
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below
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?
A man can smile and smile and be a villain.
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
Murder most foul, as in the best it it; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
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.
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.
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