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 link’d, Will sate itself in a celestial bed, And prey on garbage.
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 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.
Suit the action to the word, the word to the action.
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart?
O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world!
God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another.
Give me that man That is not passion’s slave.
