To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
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?
What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and
I do not set my life at a pin's fee,
And for my soul, what can it do to that,
Being a thing immortal as itself?
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm
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.
From this time forth
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below
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
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
To take arms against a sea of troubles.
To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life.
What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!
Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
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