Our indiscretion sometime serves us well, / When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us / There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, / Rough-hew them how we will.

Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, / Drink off this potion. Is thy union here? / Follow my mother.

’Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes / Between the pass and fell incensed points / Of mighty opposites.

And a man's life's no more than to say 'One'.

Does it not, thinks’t thee, stand me now upon,— / He that hath kill’d my king, and whor’d my mother, / Popp’d in between th’election and my hopes, / Thrown out his angle for my proper life, / And with such cozenage—is’t not perfect conscience / To quit him with this arm?

The point envenom'd too! Then, venom, to thy work.

Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet. / If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, / And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, / Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. / Who does it, then? His madness.

Break we our watch up, and by my advice, / Let us impart what we have seen tonight / Unto young Hamlet; for upon my life, / This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him.

A figure like your father, / Armed at point exactly, cap-à-pie, / Appears before them, and with solemn march / Goes slow and stately by them

But to persevere / In obstinate condolement is a course / Of impious stubbornness. ’Tis unmanly grief, / It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, / A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, / An understanding simple and unschool’d;