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January 14 - January 15, 2025
In what particular thought to work I know not, But in the gross and scope of mine opinion This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, (130) Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew, Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter! O God, God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Frailty, thy name is woman!—
I would not hear your enemy say so, (170) Nor shall you do mine ear that violence,
Thrift, thrift, Horatio!
All is not well.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, (65) Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel,
HAMLET My fate cries out And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
GHOST Murder most foul, as in the best it is. But this most foul, strange and unnatural.
Oh, fie! Hold, hold, my heart, And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, (95) But bear me stiffly up.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
That he is mad, ’tis true. Tis true, ’tis pity, And pity ’tis ’tis true—a foolish figure, But farewell it, for I will use no art.
A dream itself is but a shadow.
What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world. The paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me.
I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune!
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, (60) Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them?
Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, (80) The undiscovered country from whose bourn 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,
Ay, truly, for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.
Get thee to a nunnery.
We are arrant knaves, all. Believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery.
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go. Farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool, for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell.
To a nunnery, go.
Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
Lady, shall I lie in your lap?
That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.
So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! Die two months ago and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year.
The lady protests too much, methinks.
I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying.
It would cost you a groaning to take off mine edge.
My wit’s diseased.
Sir, I lack advancement.
‘Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
Oh, my offence is rank. It smells to heaven.
Oh, I am slain.
O shame, where is thy blush?
Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grainèd spots As will not leave their tinct.
Alas, he’s mad!
Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul That not your trespass but my madness speaks. It will but skin and film the ulcerous place (150) Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen.
Assume a virtue if you have it not.
Take you me for a sponge, my lord?
A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.
[OPHELIA enters, insane.]
Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus.
Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor and to prettiness.
Good night, sweet prince,
