O that this too too solid flesh would melt, / Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! / Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d / His canon ’gainst self-slaughter. O God! O God!

To be, or not to be, that is the question: / Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer / The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, / Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, / And by opposing end them?

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; / It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,— / A brother’s murder!

Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, / Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.

Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin.

Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

Let the gall'd jade wince; our withers are unwrung.

What, frighted with false fire?

Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing, / Confederate season, else no creature seeing; / Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, / With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, / Thy natural magic and dire property / On wholesome life usurp immediately.