Time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will!
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 link’d, Will sate itself in a celestial bed, And prey on garbage.
This the very coinage of your brain: This bodiless creation ecstasy.
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.
There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would.
There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveller returns.
The native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.
