Quotes About Introspection

He is divinely bent on meditation.

Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.

Lord Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words. Lord Polonius: What is the matter, my lord? Hamlet: Between who? Lord Polonius: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close;And let us all to meditation.

In following him, I follow but myself.

He reads much;He is a great observer, and he looksQuite through the deeds of men.

Greatness knows itself.

O! that this too too solid flesh would melt,Thaw and resolve itself into a dew;Or that the Everlasting had not fix'dHis canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitableSeem to me all the uses of this world.

Modest doubt is call'dThe beacon of the wise, the tent that searchesTo the bottom of the worst.

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.

Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate and furious,Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.

O Hamlet! what a falling-off was there.

Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.

Your mind is tossing on the ocean.

'Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to which our wills are gardeners.

I am a manMore sinn'd against than sinning.

Duke: And what's her history?Viola: A blank, my lord. She never told her love,But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought,And with a green and yellow melancholy,She sat like Patience on a monument,Smiling at grief.

Alas! 'tis true I have gone here and there,And made myself a motley to the view,Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,Made old offenses of affections new.

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

What should such fellows as I do crawling between heaven and earth? We are arrant knaves, all.

A peace above all earthly dignities,A still and quiet conscience.

It goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

The sad companion, dull-ey'd melancholy.