To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in ‘t.
This above all: to thine own self be true.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Brevity is the soul of wit.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Give me that man that is not passion’s slave.
The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.
The readiness is all.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
When he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin?
I must be cruel only to be kind.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god!
Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.
Diseases desperate grown, by desperate appliance are relieved, or not at all
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.
The rest is silence.
There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.
The serpent that did sting thy father’s life now wears his crown.
I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Tis now the very witching time of night.
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.
God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another.
The lady protests too much, methinks.
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil.
More matter, with less art.
The king doth wake tonight and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail and the swaggering up spring reels.
What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in ‘t.
Sweets to the sweet!
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
In my mind’s eye.
The whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
Brevity is the soul of wit.
I am as honest as any man living, that is an old man, and no honester than I.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Give me that man that is not passion’s slave.
What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, that he should weep for her?
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
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