Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.
To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
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?
What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven?
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.
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?
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
From this time forth My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
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.
A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below
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
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
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?
What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
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
To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
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.
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
To take arms against a sea of troubles.
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