"A man doesn't become a hero until he can see the root of his own downfall.”
Hamlet's Mourning:"O that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew, Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God, God, How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on ’t, ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! / By what it fed on, and yet within a month-- Let me not think on ’t; frailty, thy name is woman! A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she follow'd my poor father’s body, Like Niobe, all tears:--why she, even she,-- O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason Would have mourn'd longer,—married with my uncle, My father’s brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules: within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married; O most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good; But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue." (Act I, Scene 2, 129-137 & 145-159) |
Hamlet's Soliloquy:"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; ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause; there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life: / When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. Soft you now," (Act III, Scene 1, 56-69 & 75-87) |