To sleep, perchance to dream.
To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime.
This above all: to thine own self be true
The Play’s The Thing
Frailty, thy name is woman!
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
and thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this reagard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
Prologue: For us, and for our tragedy,
Here stooping to your clemency,
We beg your hearing patiently.
O, from this time forth
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!
An old man is twice a child.
The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
I hold ambition of so light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow.