a place for poems and prose
passing thoughts, ideas, lamentations, a way to process my emotions
some may disappear
βΈΈ
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.
To die, to sleep β to sleep, perchance to dream.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.
The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
What a piece of work is a man!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
Frailty, thy name is woman.
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio.
The rest is silence.
Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
This above all: to thine own self be true.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
Brevity is the soul of wit.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
I must be cruel only to be kind.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends.
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
The readiness is all.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Give me that man that is not passion's slave.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!
The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.