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Hint
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Answer
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Corruption
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something is rotten in the state of Denmark
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tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed
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time is out of joint
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this bodes some strange eruption to our state
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foul deeds will rise, though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes
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murder most foul... but this most foul, strange, and unnatural
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the serpent that did sting thy father's life now wears his crown
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I am sick at heart
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hyperion to a satyr
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a little more than kin, and less than kind
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a beast that wants discourse of reason would have mourned longer
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my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
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for like hectic in my blood he rages, and thou must cure me
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no more like my father than I to Hercules
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my words fly up, my thoughts remain below. words without thoughts never to heaven go
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mirth in funeral and dirge in marriage
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here is your husband, like a mildewed ear. blasting his wholesome brother
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hoist with his own petard
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things rank and gross in nature
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tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world
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to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
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this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promonotory
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do not spread compost on the weeds to make them ranker
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Denmark's a prison
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incestuous sheets
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foul and pestilent congregation of vapours
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what devil was it that hath cozened you at hoodman-blind?
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by our late dear brother's death our state be disjoint and out of frame
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like the owner of a foul disease, to keep it from divulging, let it feed even on the pith of life
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in heaven... if your messenger find him not there, seek him in the other place yourself
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no place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize
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Madness
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mad as the sea and wind when both contend which is mightier
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he waxes desperate with imagination - horatio
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for to define true madness, what is't to be nothing else but mad
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your noble son is mad... to define true madness, what is it to be nothing else but mad?
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a look so piteous in purport as if he had been loosed out of hell
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Hamlet's transformation... not the exterior nor the inward man resembles what it was
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madness in great ones must not unwatched go
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this is the very ecstasy of love
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mad for thy love?
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her speech is nothing
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o, this is the poison of deep grief
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Madness/ Deception
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I essentially am not in madness, but mad in craft
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to put an antic disposition on
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crafty madness - Guildenstern
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he puts on this confusion - Claudius
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nor what he spake, though it lacked form a little, was not like madness
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I am mad but north-north-west
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my wit's diseased
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though this be madness, yet there is method in it
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Deception
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do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe... though you can fret me, yet you cannot play me
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your bait of falsehood take this carp of truth
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you are a fishmonger
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my two school fellows, whom I will trust as I will adders fanged
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smiling, damned villain
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my words fly up, my thoughts remain below
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sponge... that soaks up the king's countenance, his rewards, his authorities
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Justice/natural order
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Where the offence is, let the great axe fall
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Hoist with his own petard
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leave her to heaven and to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, to prick and sting her
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there's a divinity that shapes our ends
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as a woodcock to mine own springe... I am justly killed with mine own treachery
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the foul practice hath turned itself on me
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Revenge
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revenge his foul and most unnatural murder
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I, with wings as swift as swift as meditation or the thoughts of love may sweep to my revenge
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how all occasions do inform against me and spur my dull revenge
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the play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King
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let me be cruel, not unnatural
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whet thy almost blunted purpose
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as a woodcock to mine own springe... I am justly killed with mine own treachery
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to slit his throat in the church
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prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell
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o what a rogue and peasant slave am I
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he that plays the king shall be welcome
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Priam's slaughter
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I will speak daggers to her, but use none
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my thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth
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the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge
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no place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; revenge should have no bounds
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let not ever the soul of Nero enter this firm bosom
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revenge should have no bounds
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let Hercules himself do what he may, the cat will mew and the dog will have his day
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is it not to be damned to let this canker of our nature come
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Fortinbras as a foil
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young Fortinbras, of unimproved mettle hot and full
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here shows much amiss
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spirit with divine ambition puffed
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how all occasions do inform against me and spur my dull revenge
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he hath not failed to pester us with message, importing the surrender of the lands lost by his father
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to recover of us, by strong hand... those forsaid lands so by his father lost
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Laertes as a foil
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I'll be your foil, Laertes: in mine ignorance your skill shall, like a star i'the darkest night, stick fiery off indeed
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to cut his throat in the church
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I am satisfied in nature
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I'll be revenged most thoroughly for my father
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it warms the very sickness in my heart, that I shall live and tell him to his teeth, 'thus diest thou'
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I'll touch my point with this contagion, that if I gall him slightly, it may be death
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Duty/filial obligation
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o cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right
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I am too much in the sun
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my fate cries out
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the survivor bound in filial obligation for some term to do obsequious sorrow
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unpregnant of my cause
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I lack advancement
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there lives within the very flame of love a kind of wick and snuff that will abate it (claudius about Laertes' revenge)
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Gender
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the canker galls the infants of the spring too oft before their buttons be disclosed
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get thee to a nunnery
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tis unmanly grief
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frailty, thy name is woman
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the lady doth protest too much, methinks
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in second husband let me be accurst (metadrama)
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let in the maid, that out a maid never departed before
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you promised me to wed. so would I a done, by yonder sun, and thou hadst not come into my bed
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when these are gone, the woman will be out
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Grief/identity
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O, that this too too sullied flesh would melt thaw and resolve itself into a dew
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to be or not to be
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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.
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to die, to sleep. to sleep, perchance to dream.
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though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green
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cast thy nighted colour off
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Morality/conscience
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to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day thou canst not then be false to any man
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there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so
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a dream itself is but a shadow
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to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
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we are arrant knaves all
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conscience does make cowards of us all
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my stronger guilt defeats my strong intent
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what if this cursed hand were thicker than itself with brother's blood, is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens to wash it white as snow?
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bow, stubborn knees
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I must be cruel only to be kind
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so full of artless joy is guilt, it spills itself in fearing to be spilt
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that we would do we should do when we would
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but, to know a man well, were to know himself
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