Emotions and Feelings

Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; And now I’ll do ’t: and so he goes to heaven; And so I am reveng’d.

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

Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; When little fears grow great, great love grows there.

A man that fortune’s buffets and rewards Hast ta’en with equal thanks.

They are not a pipe for fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much of this.

They are not a pipe for fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much of this.

O! woe is me, To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

O! woe is me, To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observ’d of all observers!

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.

O! what a noble mind is here o’erthrown: The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword.

But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall To make oppression bitter.

But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall To make oppression bitter.

Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face?

O! what a rogue and peasant slave am I.

This is the very ecstasy of love.

Rest, rest, perturbed spirit!

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

To put an antic disposition on.

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

There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark, But he’s an arrant knave.

O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables—meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain; At least I’m sure it may be so in Denmark.

O my prophetic soul! My uncle!

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand an end, Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.