William Shakespeare: : The Complete Works

The play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.

Murder most foul,

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.

Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.

brevity is the soul of wit,

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

It seems it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion.

I am but mad north-north-west.

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.