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Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.
Oct 2, 2025
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?
Murder most foul, as in the best it it; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
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.
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
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
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life.
O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.
Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake.
How strange or odd some'er I bear myself, As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on.
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?
To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
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.
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.
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