That he is mad, 'tis true; 'tis true, 'tis pity;
And pity 'tis, 'tis true.

Act ii. Sc. 2.

Doubt thou the stars are tire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.

Act ii. Sc. 2,

Still harping on my daughter.

Act ii. Sc. 2.

Though this be madness, yet there's method in it.

Act ii. Sc. 2.

What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in
faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action,
how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a God!

Act ii. Sc. 2.

Man delights not me--nor woman neither.

Act ii. Sc. 2.

I know a hawk from a hand-saw.

Act ii. Sc. 2.

Come, give us a taste of your quality.

Act ii. Sc. 2.

'Twas caviare to the general.

Act ii. Sc. 2.

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?

Act ii. Sc. 2.

The play's the thing,
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

Act iii. Sc. 1.

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?--To die--to sleep--
No more--and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to--'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die--to sleep--
To sleep! perchance, to dream--ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.

* * * * *

The spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes;
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin. Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death--
The undiscovered country, from whose bourne
No traveler returns--puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
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.

* * * * *

Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

Act iii. Sc. 1.

Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,
thon shalt not escape calumny.

Act iii. Sc. 1.

The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,
The observed of all observers!

Act iii. Sc. X.

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jan