Quotes on Hamlet 2

There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

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 are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

A man can smile and smile and be a villain.

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.

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.

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.

The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?

'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

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

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks

The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!

I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.