Show his eyes, and grieve his heart!

Come like shadows, so depart.

Activ. Sc. I.

What will the line stretch out to the crack of

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

Stands Scotland where it did?

Activ. Sc. 3.

Activ. Sc. 3.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak, Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.

Activ. Sc. 3.

What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop?

Act iv. Sc. 3.

I cannot but remember such things were,

That were most precious to me.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue!

Act iv. Sc. 3.

Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier and afeared.

Act v. Sc. 1.

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little

hand.

Act v. Sc. 1.

My way of life

Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf;

And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.
Act v. Sc. 3.

Not so sick, my lord,

As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased;

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;

Act v. Sc. 3.

Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

Act v. Sc. 3.

Therein the patient must minister to himself.

Act v. Sc. 3.

Throw physic to the dogs: I'll none of it.

Act v. Sc. 3.

I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That should applaud again.

Act v. Sc. 3.

Hang out our banners on the outward walls;
The cry is still, They come.
Our castle's strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn.

Act v. Sc. 5.

I have supped full with horrors.

Act v. Sc. 5.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Act v. Sc. 5.

Lies like truth.

Act v. Sc. 5.

Blow, wind! come, wrack!

At least we'll die with harness on our back. Act v. Sc. 5.

I bear a charmed life.

Act v. Sc. 7.

That palter with us in a double sense;

That keep the word of promise to our ear,
And break it to our hope.

Act v. Sc. 7.

Lay on, Macduff;

And damned be him that first cries, Hold, enough!

HAMLET.

Act v. Sc. 7.

This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

Acti. Sc. 1.

Does not divide the Sunday from the week.

Acti. Sc. I.

Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day.

In the most high and palmy state of Rome,

A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,

Act i. Sc. 1.

The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.

And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons.

Act i. Sc. 1.

Act i. Sc. 1.

Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long :
And then they say no spirit dares stir abroad ;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

The head is not more native to the heart.

Acti. Sc. 1.

Acti. Sc. 2.

A little more than kin, and less than kind. Acti. Sc. 2.

Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems.

Acti. Sc. 2.

But I have that within which passeth show;
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.

O that this too, too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!

Or that the Everlasting had not fixed

Acti. Sc. 2.

His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!

Acti. Sc. 2.

That it should come to this!

Acti. Sc. 2.

Hyperion to a satyr! so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly.

Why, she would hang on him,

Acti. Sc. 2.

My father's brother; but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules.

Acti. Sc. 2.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Acti. Sc. 2.

In my mind's eye, Horatio.

Acti. Sc. 2.

He was a man, take him for all in all,