To be, or not to be, that is the question: 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: to die, to sleep No more; and by a sleep, to say we end The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep, To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub.

Hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig.

Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries.

That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)

Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream

We will have rings and things and fine array

You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.