Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.

Denmark's a prison.

Words, words, words.

And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

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?

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 pith and moment, / With this regard their currents turn awry / And lose the name of action.

The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn / No traveller returns, puzzles the will, / And makes us rather bear those ills we have / Than fly to others that we know not of?

To die, to sleep. / To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, / For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, / When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, / Must give us pause.

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

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