Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.
Virtue itself ‘scapes not calumnious strokes.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.
Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth.
If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding, but no tongue.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Use every man after his desert, and who should ‘scape whipping?
To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart?
