Life and Existence

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion.

’Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god.

Modest doubt is call’d The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To the bottom of the worst.

And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mass Of things to come.

And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mass Of things to come.

Take but degree away, untune that string, And, hark! what discord follows; each thing meets In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores, And make a sop of all this solid globe.

O! when degree is shaked, Which is the ladder to all high designs, The enterprise is sick.

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

O proud death! What feast is toward in thine eternal cell?

O God! Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me. 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.

O God! Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me. 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.

This fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest.

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

I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid, And not have strew’d thy grave.

A ministering angel shall my sister be.

Sweets to the sweet: farewell!

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

Lay her i’ the earth; And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring!

A very riband in the cap of youth.

We have done but greenly, In hugger-mugger to inter him.

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf At his heels a stone.

How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unus’d.

How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unus’d.