Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones.
Out, out, brief candle!
Is this a dagger I see before me?
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.
Beware the Ides of March!
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 heartache, 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.
If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh?
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
By: Infinite monkeys with infinite typewriters (unfortunately time wasn’t infinite so we couldn’t do the complete works…)