Трагедии

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.

What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.

There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.

I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself king of infinite space

Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?

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

O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.

The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.