Hamlet, Prince of Denmark — Vocabulary
William Shakespeare
(Auto-generated)

She speaks much of her father; says she hears There's tricks i' the world, and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.2 more

  To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it;
  Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole
  A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.†2 more

I beseech you.†7 more

Therefore I have entreated him along
With us to watch the minutes of this night;
That, if again this apparition come
He may approve our eyes and speak to it.6 more

—Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed?†5 more

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.3 more

  —We are oft to blame in this,—'Tis too much prov'd,—that with devotion's visage
  And pious action we do sugar o'er
  The Devil himself.†4 more

  This is the very ecstasy of love;
  Whose violent property fordoes itself,
  And leads the will to desperate undertakings,
  As oft as any passion under heaven
  That does afflict our natures.†4 more

  This is the very coinage of your brain:
  This bodiless creation ecstasy
  Is very cunning in.†3 more

Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?†4 more

  The glowworm shows the matin to be near,
  And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire:
  Adieu, adieu!†6 more

  No, I went round to work,
  And my young mistress thus I did bespeak:
  'Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy sphere;
  This must not be:' and then I precepts gave her,
  That she should lock herself from his resort,
  Admit no messengers, receive no tokens.†1 more

  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;
  For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
  The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
  The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
  The insolence of office, and the spurns
  That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
  When he himself might his quietus make
  With a bare bodkin?†1 more

  Sweet, leave me here awhile;
  My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile
  The tedious day with sleep.†1 more

  And what's in prayer but this twofold force,—To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
  Or pardon'd being down?†1 more

  I pray you all,
  If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,
  Let it be tenable in your silence still;
  And whatsoever else shall hap to-night,
  Give it an understanding, but no tongue:
  I will requite your loves.†1 more

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.4 more

Ay, sir; that soaks up the King's countenance, his rewards, his authorities.4 more

Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, The better to beguile.2 more

—We are oft to blame in this,— 'tis too much prov'd,—that with devotion's visage And pious action we do sugar o'er The Devil himself.2 more