General

Diseases, desperate grown,
By desperate appliance are reliev'd,
Or not at all.

Diseases, desperate grown,
By desperate appliance are reliev'd,
Or not at all.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions: first, her father slain;
Next, your read more

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions: first, her father slain;
Next, your son gone, and he most violent author
Of his own just remove; the people muddied,
Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers
For good Polonius' death, and we have done but greenly
In hugger-mugger to inter him; poor Ophelia
Divided from herself and her fair judgment,
Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts;
Last, and as much containing as all these,
Her brother is in secret come from France,
Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With pestilent speeches of his father's death,
Wherein necessity, of matter beggared,
Will nothing stick our person to arraign
In ear and ear.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied read more

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.

'Tis too much proved,--that with devotion's visage,
And pious action, we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.

'Tis too much proved,--that with devotion's visage,
And pious action, we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.

With devotion's visage,
And pious action, we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.

With devotion's visage,
And pious action, we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.

Here's metal more attractive.

Here's metal more attractive.

Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.

Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.

There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.

There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.