Your worm is your only emperor for diet; we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.
Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
From this time forth My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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?
The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!
For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg.
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list!
I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.
So loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven, Visit her face' too roughly.
You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame
This is the very ecstasy of love.
This is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy.
It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, "Thus diddest thou;"
Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.
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.
God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
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