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

The time is out of joint. O cursed spite, / That ever I was born to set it right.

As I perchance hereafter shall think meet / To put an antic disposition on—

The serpent that did sting thy father’s life / Now wears his crown.

Murder most foul, as in the best it is; / But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, / And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, / I will be brief.

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

Why, then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.