To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
To die, to sleep to sleep, perchance to dream.
To thine own self be true.
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
The time is out of joint.
This above all: to thine own self be true.
Get thee to a nunnery!
Brevity is the soul of wit.
What a piece of work is man!
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.
The serpent that did sting thy father’s life now wears his crown.
This is the very painting of your fear.
Ophelia, we’ll have no more of that.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial, fond records.
The rest is silence.
Whats Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?
I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space.
There is a play tonight before the king.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
Are you honest?
Give me that man that is not passion’s slave.
How all occasions do inform against me.
I am but mad north-north-west.
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail.
Words, words, words.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
Theres a divinity that shapes our ends.
What a rogue and peasant slave am I!
We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.
In my mind’s eye.
A little more than kin and less than kind.
The plays the thing.
The lady’s not for burning.
Give me my robe.
To be great, not just to be good.
I must be cruel only to be kind.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.