Well, if fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear.
Use every man after his desert, and who shall scape whipping?
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, the which in every language I pronounce, stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.
Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven, so lust, though to a radiant angel linked, will sate itself in a celestial bed and prey on garbage.
Though I perchance am vicious in my guess (As, I confess, it is my nature’s plague to spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy shapes faults that are not).
Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
This above all, to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
Things done well, and with a care, exempt themselves from fear.
These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume.
There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, that treason can but peep to what it would.
