What then? what rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engaged!
What need we any spur but our own cause to prick us to redress?
What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel?
Well, if fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear.
Use every man after his desert, and who should ‘scape whipping?
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
Two may keep counsel, putting one away?
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 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.
