Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
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 take arms against a sea of troubles.
This above all; to thine own self be true.
To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
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.
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
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.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below
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.
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?
To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
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
To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life.
The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
or simply:
