What a piece of work is a man

When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain

Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.

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?

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.

Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.