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Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.
Sep 24, 2025
He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.
This fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest.
He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
So loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven, Visit her face' too roughly.
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?
After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.
Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, Contagious blastments are are most imminent.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.
O wretched state! o bosom black as death!
What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.
The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.
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
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
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?
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
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 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.
To take arms against a sea of troubles.
No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
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