- This above all: to thine own self be true.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
But never doubt I love.
To die, to sleep; to sleep: perchance to dream.
Frailty, thy name is woman!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?
Be all my sins remember’d!
He will never come again.
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
We are arrant knaves all, believe none of us.
God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another.
Tis the times’ plague, when madmen lead the blind.
Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
Remember me.
Something is rotten in the state of ________.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.
To be, or not to be: that is the question.
What a piece of work is a man!
He is dead and gone.
A little more than kin, a little less than kind.
- ‘Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
- I must be cruel only to be kind.
- So full of artless jealousy is guilt.
The Devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.
In my heart there was a kind of fighting that would not let me sleep.
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Our wills and fates do so contrary run.
I shall not look upon his like again.
- We fat ourselves for maggots.
By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him.