Hamlet - Deepstash

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I am too much in the sun

SHAKESPEARE

4

21 reads

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

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20 reads

Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry

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14 reads

This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man

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10 reads

That one may smile and smile and be a villain

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7 reads

Hic et ubique

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9 reads

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

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7 reads

Brevity is the soul of wit

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8 reads

Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t

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4 reads

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 women neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so

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6 reads

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw

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6 reads

Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words and fall a-cursing like a very drab, a stallion!

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5 reads

How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience

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6 reads

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

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5 reads

To die, to sleep—to sleep, perchance to dream. At, 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. There’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of th’ unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin

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5 reads

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 pitch and moment with this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action

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5 reads

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind

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5 reads

God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another

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4 reads

Madness in great ones must not unwatched go

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5 reads

The lady doth protest too much, methinks

SHAKESPEARE

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5 reads

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