Hamlet

Frailty, thy name is woman!

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

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?

— O, bosom, black as death! Help, angels! All may yet be well. Now he's praying, and now I'll do it. And so he goes to heaven.
— Don't talk. Just do it.
— Hey, Claudius. You killed my father. Big mistake.
— Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, and Hamlet is taking out the trash.
— Stay thy hand, fair prince.
— Who said I'm fair?
— No one's going to tell this sweet prince, "Good night."
— To be or not to be.
— Not to be.

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- O, bosom, black as death! Help, angels! All may yet be well. Now he's praying, and now I'll do it. And so he goes to heaven.
- Don't talk. Just do it.
- Hey, Claudius. You killed my father. Big mistake.
- Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, and Hamlet is taking out the trash.
- Stay thy hand, fair prince.
- Who said I'm fair?
- No one's going to tell this sweet prince, "Good night."
- To be or not to be.
- Not to be.

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?

Why, let the strucken deer go weep,
The hart ungalled play,
For some must watch, while some must sleep,
So runs the world away.

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. But now how abhorred in my imagination it is. My gorge rises it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your jibes now? Your songs? Your gambols? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?

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Hamlet (1948)

Sad Quotes

I'll be your foil, Laertes: in mine ignorance
Your skill shall, like a star i' the darkest night,
Stick fiery off indeed.