What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.

Let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon

But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.

Perseverance... keeps honor bright: to have done, is to hang quite out of fashion, like a rusty nail in monumental mockery.

Despair and die. The ghosts