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

Sweets to the sweet. Farewell.

Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, / Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, / Absent thee from felicity awhile, / And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, / To tell my story.

The rest is silence.

Not a whit, we defy augury. There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all.

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, / Rough-hew them how we will.

This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

If it assume my noble father’s person, / I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape / And bid me hold my peace.