Трагедии

Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind.

For some must watch, while some must sleep
So runs the world away

Blest are those
Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled,
That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger
To sound what stop she please.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears.

There is method in my madness.

He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.

death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,

What a piece of work is a 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! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! and yet to me, what is
this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no,
nor Woman neither; though by your smiling you seeme
to say so

If your mind dislike anything obey it