Hamlet

by William Shakespeare

The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, 50 Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father.

A little more than kin, and less than kind!

If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee?

This is so mean 😭😭😭 His dad died 😭😭😭

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be: 80 For loan oft loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

The serpent that did sting thy father’s life 45 Now wears his crown.

With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,— 50 O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!—won to his shameful lust

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

To sleep! perchance to dream:—ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 75 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, 80 The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear, 85 To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death,— The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns,—puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have 90 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; And enterprises of great pith and moment, 95 With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.—Soft you now! The fair

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with 120 honesty? HAMLET 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.

It shall be so: Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go.

Termagant; it out-herods Herod:

🤣🤣🤣

But what we do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory; Of violent birth, but poor validity: Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree; 180 But fall unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary ’tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt: What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own:

O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none; My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites,— 375 How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent!

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; 40 It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,— A brother’s murder!—Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, 45 I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood,— Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy 50 But to confront the visage of offence?

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

And do not spread the compost on the weeds, To make them ranker.

first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.

In heaven: send thither to see: if your messenger find him not there, seek him i’ the other place yourself.

Go to hell? 🤣

What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard; 120 Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother.

he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

there’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: