To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
This above all: to thine own self be true.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
To sleep: perchance to dream.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.
What a piece of work is man!
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
The serpent that did sting thy father’s life now wears his crown.
Frailty, thy name is woman!
Whats in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
I must be cruel, only to be kind.
The rest is silence.
Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
Brevity is the soul of wit.
The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
There is a tide in the affairs of men.
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
Action is eloquence.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.
I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space.
What a rogue and peasant slave am I!
The lady shall appear in a more gracious manner.
It is not nor it cannot come to good.
The fundamental substance of my life is merely a shadow.
I am more an antique than a sage.
Though this be true, I shall not yield!
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
The time is out of joint.
Theres rosemary, thats for remembrance.
Conscience does make cowards of us all.
In my minds eye.
You doth not speak with a lot of words, but plenty from thine heart.
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt.
Get thee to a nunnery!
What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord?
Give me that man that is not passion’s slave.
As if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on.
Do not believe anything you hear, for most of it is just a misinterpretation.
In the game of life, the heart is always the key player.
I know not ‘seems,’ nor ‘becomes,’ nor ‘is,’ just ‘be.’
All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
The only thing we have to fear is the fear itself, and perhaps a ghost or two.