Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Don’t waste your love on somebody, who doesn’t value it.
Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Love is heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake- its everything except what it is! (Act 1, scene 1)
Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. then your love would also change.
And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.
…Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make love known?
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
I do love nothing in the world so well as you- is not that strange?
For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,To die upon the hand I love so well.
love is blindand lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit
Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish’d and cured is that the lunacy is soordinary that the whippers are in love too.
Love moderately. Long love doth so.Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.*Love each other in moderation. That is the key to long-lasting love. Too fast is as bad as too slow.*
I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.
If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking and you beat love down.
I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.
Life … is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.
How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world.
Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow…a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Of all the wonders that I have heard,It seems to me most strange that men should fear;Seeing death, a necessary end,Will come when it will come.(Act II, Scene 2)
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Of all knowledge, the wise and good seek mostly to know themselves.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweetThough to itself it only live and die
That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
Out of this nettle – danger – we pluck this flower – safety.
He that hath the steerage of my course,Direct my sail.
The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
Women may fall when there’s no strength in men.Act II
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,Rough-hew them how we will.
Men must endureTheir going hence, even as their coming hither.Ripeness is all.
Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know.
There are occasions and causes, why and wherefore in all things.
His life was gentle; and the elementsSo mixed in him, that Nature might stand upAnd say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!
Tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
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
There’s little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.
Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy and say ‘Father, as it please you.’ But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say ‘Father, as it please me.
When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew
I drink to the general joy o’ the whole table.” Macbeth
If [God] send me no husband, for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening …
If music be the food of love, play on,Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,The appetite may sicken, and so die.
My only love sprung from my only hate!Too early seen unknown, and known too late!Prodigious birth of love it is to me,That I must love a loathed enemy.
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! And, lips, oh you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Suffer love! A good ephitet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.
Men’s eyes were made to look, let them gaze, I will budge for no man’s pleasure.
Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.
Love is a smoke rais’d with the fume of sighs; being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
Viola to Duke Orsino: ‘I’ll do my best To woo your lady.'[Aside.] ‘Yet, a barful strife! Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.
For thy sweet love remembr’d such wealth bringsThat then, I scorn to change my state with kings.
The course of true love never did run smooth said by lysander
O, wonder!How many goodly creatures are there here!How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,That has such people in’t!
And worse I may be yet: the worst is notSo long as we can say ‘This is the worst.
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings.
When he shall die,Take him and cut him out in little stars,And he will make the face of heaven so fineThat all the world will be in love with nightAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.
One pain is lessened by another’s anguish. … Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die.
Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come
Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;Life and these lips have long been separated:Death lies on her like an untimely frostUpon the sweetest flower of all the field.
This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.
But thoughts the slave of life, and life, Time’s fool,And Time, that takes survey of all the world,Must have a stop.
Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him,And all their ministers attend on him.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,So do our minutes hasten to their end;Each changing place with that which goes before,In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is’t thou say’st? Her voice was ever soft.
O my love, my wife!Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breathHath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
Romeo: Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.Mercutio: No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.
La vida es mi tortura y la muerte será mi descanso.
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;Make dust our paper and with rainy eyesWrite sorrow on the bosom of the earth,Let’s choose executors and talk of wills
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel:Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!This was the most unkindest cut of all
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,And therefore I forbid my tears.
And will ‘a not come again? And will ‘a not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death bed: He will never come again.
These are the ushers of Martius: before himHe carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears.Death, that dark spirit, in’s nervy arm doth lie,Which being advanc’d, declines, and then men die.
This world’s a city full of straying streets, and death’s the market-place where each one meets.
Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seatin this distracted globe. Remember thee?
There’s a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads onto fortune, omitted, all their voyages end in shallows and miseries. Upon such tide are we now…
През дрипите прозира всеки грях,а мантии и шуби скриват всичко!
I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow worldLike a Colossus; and we petty menWalk under his huge legs, and peep aboutTo find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.
There’s an old saying that applies to me: you can’t lose a game if you don’t play the game. (Act 1, scene 4)
Under the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with meAnd tune his merry note,Unto the sweet bird’s throat;Come hither, come hither, come hither.Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
A lover goes toward his beloved as enthusiastically as a schoolboy leaving his books, but when he leaves his girlfriend, he feels as miserable as the schoolboy on his way to school. (Act 2, scene 2)
All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I ey’d, Such seems your beauty still.
Then others for breath of words respect,Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
O, how this spring of love resemblethThe uncertain glory of an April day,Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,And by and by a cloud takes all away!
I take thee at thy word:Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized;Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune but to write and read comes by nature.
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascendThe brightest heaven of invention!
Give thanks for what you are today and go on fighting for what you gone be tomorrow
We, ignorant of ourselves,Beg often our own harms, which the wise powersDeny us for our good; so find we profitBy losing of our prayers.
Come on then, I will swear to study soTo know the thing I am forbid to know- Berowne
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,By self-example mayst thou be denied.
Master, go on, and I will follow theeTo the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.
Love is not loveWhich alters when alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove:Oh, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,that looks on tempests and is never shaken.
Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
Four days will quickly steep themselves in nightsFour nights will quickly dream away the time.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty face from day to day.
How art thou out of breath when thou hast breathTo say to me that thou art out of breath?
The small amount of foolery wise men have makes a great show.
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom,It helps not, it prevails not.
I’ll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.
Afore me! It is so very late,That we may call it early by and by.
Glendower: I can call the spirits from the vasty deep.Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man;But will they come, when you do call for them?
There are more things in heaven and earth…than are dreamt of by your philosophy.
There is more things in heaven and earth…than are dreamt of by your philosophy.
And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything. I would not change it.
Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish’d me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.
O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?And shall I couple Hell?
Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.
…what care I for words? Yet words do wellWhen he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find.
Give me that man that is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him in my heart’s core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.
I have unclasp’d to thee the book even of my secret soul.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,All losses are restored and sorrows end.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;But do not dull thy palm with entertainmentOf each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade.
This hand shall never more come near thee with such friendship
I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
…and then, in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open and show riches / Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked / I cried to dream again.
For some must watch, while some must sleep So runs the world away
– Where is Polonius?- In heaven; send hither to see: if your messenger find him not there, seek him i’ the other place yourself.
Make the doors upon a woman’s wit,and it will out at the casement;shut that, and ’twill out at the key-hole;stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;They are the books, the arts, the academes,That show, contain and nourish all the world.
Were kisses all the joys in bed,/One woman would another wed.
Proper deformity shows not in the fiendSo horrid as in woman.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.- Romeo –
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . .She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comesIn shape no bigger than an agate stoneOn the forefinger of an alderman,Drawn with a team of little atomiAthwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.
The Brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing, and think it were not night.
Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?
Beauty itself doth of itself persuadeThe eyes of men without orator.
Sound drums and trumpets! Farewell sour annoy! For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.
We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.
Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of our generation you shall find.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
A peace is of the nature of a conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser.
One fire burns out another’s burning,One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish.
MARCUS ANDRONICUS: Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?TITUS ANDRONICUS: Ha, ha, ha!MARCUS ANDRONICUS: Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.TITUS ANDRONICUS: Why, I have not another tear to shed:
When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.
I will deny thee nothing: Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, To leave me but a little to myself.
I’ll follow this good man, and go with you;And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.
Now go with me and with this holy manInto the chantry by: there, before him,And underneath that consecrated roof,Plight me the full assurance of your faith.
Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.
There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,Doing more murder in this loathsome world,Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly ‘s done, when the battle ‘s lost and won
Lovers and madmen have such seething brainsSuch shaping fantasies, that apprehendMore than cool reason ever comprehends.
It is excellent / To have a giant’s strenght / But it is tyrannous / To use it like a giant(Isabella)
The pow’r I have on you is to spare you / The malice towards you, to forgive you. Posthumus
As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound. There is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition, oft got without merit and lost without deserving.
O brave new world,That has such people in ’t!-Miranda
The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.
Macbeth:If we should fail?Lady Macbeth:We fail?But screw your courage to the sticking place,And we’ll not fail.
He which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart, his passport shall be made and crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that man’s company that fears his fellowship, to die with us.
This is the very ecstasy of love,Whose violent property fordoes itselfAnd leads the will to desperate undertakingsAs oft as any passion under heavenThat does afflict our natures.
My brain I’ll prove the female to my soul; my soul the father: and these two beget a generation of still-breeding thoughts, and these same thoughts people this little world.
He eats nothing but doves, love, and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood beget hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.
O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace.
Have not we affections and desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?
Refrain to-night;And that shall lend a kind of easinessTo the next abstinence, the next more easy;For use almost can change the stamp of nature,And either master the devil or throw him outWith wondrous potency.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars and swearers enough to beat the honest men and hang up them.
O that a man might knowThe end of this day’s business ere it come!But it sufficeth that the day will endAnd then the end is known.
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.
Suit the action to the word, theWord to the action.
They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.
…speak to me as to thy thinkingAs thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughtsThe worst of words…
Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind, And makes it fearful and degenerate; Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.
There is nothing in the world so much like prayer as music is. ~William Shakespeare
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,Men were deceivers ever,-One foot in sea and one on shore,To one thing constant never.
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to th’ quick,Yet with my nobler reason ‘gainst my furyDo I take part.
Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all! Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall: Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none: And some condemned for a fault alone.
To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be, it is impossible: Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
This tune goes manly.Come, go we to the King. Our power is ready;Our lack is nothing but our leave. MacbethIs ripe for shaking, and the powers abovePut on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may.The night is long that never finds th
Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.
Some grief shows much of love,But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
Have I thought long to see this morning’s face,And doth it give me such a sight as this?
for my grief’s so greatThat no supporter but the huge firm earthCan hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.(Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)
My particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o’erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.
Do not forever with thy vailed lidsSeek for thy noble father in the dust.Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die,Passing though nature to eternity.
Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds that sees into the bottom of my grief?
The grief that does not speak whispers the o’erfraught heart and bids it break.
Let us not burthen our remembrance withA heaviness that’s gone.
I have a soul of leadSo stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
Not a whit, we defy augury: there’s a specialprovidence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now,’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will benow; if it be not now, yet it will come: thereadiness is all.
Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upwardTo what they were before.
But I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like moulten lead.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh-ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.
HIPPOLYTABut all the story of the night told over,And all their minds transfigured so together,More witnesseth than fancy’s imagesAnd grows to something of great constancy,But, howsoever, strange and admirable.
Men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.
Small herbs have grace, great weeds to grow apace.
O, she’s warm!If this be magic, let it be an artLawful as eating.
And now about the cauldron singLike elves and fairies in a ring,Enchanting all that you put in.
If this be magic, let it be an art lawful as eating.
And Sir, it is no little thing to make mine eyes to sweat compassion.
I must be cruel only to be kind;Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
He is as full of valor as of kindness. Princely in both.
Travellers ne’er did lie,Though fools at home condemn ’em.-Antonio
And yet for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean. Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.
Poor and content is rich, and rich enough;But riches fineless is as poor as winterTo him that ever fears he shall be poor;–Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defendFrom jealousy!
Fortune, that arrant whore,Ne’er turns the key to th’poor.
I am not gamesome: I do lack some partof that quick spirit that is in Antony.
Things without all remedy should be without regard: what’s done is done.
… one fire burns out another’s burning.One pain is lessened by another’s anguish. -Romeo & Juliet
Alas, my lord, your wisdom is consumed in confidence.
Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew, Or that the Everlasting had not fixed. His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter!
Mum, mum,He that keeps nor crust nor crumb,Weary of all, shall want some.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.
But hear thee, Gratiano:Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice – Parts that become thee happily enough,And in such eyes as ours appear no faults,But where thou art not known, why, there they show Something too liberal.
He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.
I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
Each new mornNew widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrowsStrike heaven on the face, that it resoundsAs if it felt with Scotland, and yelled outLike syllable of dolor.
I have set my life upon a cast,And I will stand the hazard of the die.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,Yet Grace must still look so.
Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
If it be now, ’tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all.
Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity.
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,Rough-hew them how we will
An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition on the charge of a star!
..What our contempt often hurls from us,We wish it our again; the present pleasure,By revolution lowering,does becomeThe opposite of itself..
Never durst a poet touch a pen to writeUntil his ink was tempered with love’s sighs.
GLOUCESTERNow, good sir, what are you?EDGARA most poor man made tame to fortune’s blows,Who by the art of known and feeling sorrowsAm pregnant to good pity.
Experience is by industry achiev’d,And perfected by the swift course of time.
Fie, fie upon her! There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out at every joint and motive of her body.
It were a grief so brief to part with thee.Farewell.
A sad tale’s best for winter: I have one of sprites and goblins.
Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her, But Romeo may not.
Let us revenge this withour pikes, ere we become rakes: for the gods know Ispeak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge.
That in the captain’s but a choleric word,Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
I understand a fury in your wordsBut not your words.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,And then is heard no more. It is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
Olivia: What’s a drunken man like, fool?Feste: Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.
Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor bare, forked animal as thou art.
Love me or hate me, both are in my favour. If you love me, I’ll always be in your heart… If you hate me, I’ll always be in your mind.
Love me or hate me, both are in my favor. If you love me, I’ll always be in your heart. If you hate me, I’ll always be in your mind.
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving,
I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment.
She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, therefore to be won.
I might call him. A thing divine, for nothing natural. I ever saw so noble.
I know you all, and will awhile uphold the unyoked humour of your idleness . . .
Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.
To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
To be honest, as this world goes is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.Hamlet Act II, Scene II Lines 178-179
Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.- Lucullus (Act III, scene 1)
Ay,sir;to be honest,as this world goes,is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
For your sake, jewel,I am glad at soul I have no other child;For thy escape would teach me tyranny,To hang clogs on them.
The truth you speak doth lack some gentlenessAnd time to speak it in. You rub the soreWhen you should bring the plaster.
O! Learn to read what silent love hath writ:to hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.
But then I sigh, with a piece of ScriptureTell them that God bids us to do evil for good; And thus I clothe my naked villanyWith odd old ends stolen out of Holy Writ;And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
What’s in a name? that which we call a roseBy any other name would smell as sweet.
Be as thou wast wont to be.See as thou wast wont to see.
Cucullus non facit monachum; that’s as much to say, as I wear not motley in my brain.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life,Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife. . . . O, I am fortune’s fool! . . . Then I defy you, stars.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet
The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.
I cannot live to hear the news from England.But I do prophesy th’ election lightsOn Fortinbras; he has my dying voice.So tell him, with th’ occurents, more and less,Which have solicited – the rest is silence.
The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law. – Romeo
For it falls outThat what we have we prize not to the worthWhiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost,Why, then we rack the value, then we findThe virtue that possession would not show usWhile it was ours.
I beg for justice, which you, Prince, must give. Romeo killed Tybalt; Romeo must not live.
Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust. (Act V, Scene 2, 2503)
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vicesMake instruments to plague us.
Uncertain way of gain. But I am inSo far in blood that sin will pluck on sin.Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
Who knows himself a braggart, let him fear this, for it will come to pass that every braggart shall be found an ass.
If I turn mine eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest;
The robb’d that smiles, steals something from the thief.
I rather would entreat thy companyTo see the wonders of the world abroadThan, living dully sluggardiz’d at home,Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
Golden lads and girls all must, like chimmney-sweepers, come to dust.
CLEOPATRA: My salad days,When I was green in judgment: cold in blood,To say as I said then! But, come, away;Get me ink and paper:He shall have every day a several greeting,Or I’ll unpeople Egypt.
We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow
such wanton, wild, and usual slips/ As are companions noted and most known/ To youth and liberty.
He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
. . . I will not be sworn, but love may trans-form me to an oyster, but, I’ll take my oath on it, till hehave made an oyster of me, he shall never make me sucha fool.
Live by the words of intelligence endured..F@&$ IT!
Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
She moves me not, or not removes at least affection’s edge in me.
Our reasons are not prophets When oft our fancies are.
Were such things here as we do speak about?Or have we eaten on the insane rootThat takes the reason prisoner?
… and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days…
… reason andlove keep little company together now-a-days…
The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle’s compass come.
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,For they in thee a thousand errors note; But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,Who in despite of view is pleased to dote
But thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool;And time, that takes survey of all the world,Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy,But that the earthy and cold hand of deathLies on my tongue
silence is not a langauge, its a weapon to make your dear one to feel
The time approachesThat will with due decision make us knowWhat we shall say we have and what we owe.Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate,But certain issue strokes must arbitrate;Towards which, advance th
The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks,They are all fire and every one doth shine
Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.
If I were to kiss you then go to hell, I would. So then I can brag with the devils I saw heaven without ever entering it.
turn him into stars and form a constellation in his image. His face will make the heavens so beautiful that the world will fall in love with the night and forget about the garish sun.
Be bloody, bold, and resolute. Laugh to scornThe power of man, for none of woman bornShall harm Macbeth.
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit,And look on death itself!
What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyesWould, with themselves, shut up my thoughts…
Thy best of rest is sleep,And that thou oft provok’st; yet grossly fear’stThy death, which is no more.
PORTERThis is a lot of knocking! Come to think of it, if a man were in charge of opening the gates of hell to let people in, he would have to turn the key a lot.
To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently abeast!
Nought’s had, all’s spent, where our desire is got without content.
O, that’s a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely,
O, that’s a brave man! He writes brave versrs, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely,
Sweet are the uses of adversityWhich, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
The shadow of my sorrow. Let’s see, ’tis very true. My griefs lie all within and these external manners of laments are mere shadows to the unseen grief which swells with silence in the tortured soul.There lies the substance.
Frailty, thy name is woman!—A little month, or ere those shoes were oldWith which she follow’d my poor father’s body,Like Niobe, all tears:—
CASSIO: Dost thou hear, my honest friend?CLOWN: No, I hear not your honest friend, I hear you.CASSIO: Prithee, keep up thy quillets.
Sir, he hath not fed of the dainties that are bred in a book; He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts… (Act IV, Scene II)
DEMETRIUSRelent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yieldThy crazed title to my certain right.LYSANDERYou have her father’s love, Demetrius;Let me have Hermia’s: do you marry him.
Our nearness to the king in love is nearness to those who love not the king.
Deal mildly with his youth; for young hot colts, being rag’s, do rage the more.
The art of our necessities is strangeThat can make vile things precious.
If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?”. – (Act III, scene I).
The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.
Come, sir, come,I’ll wrestle with you in my strength of love.Look, here I have you, thus I let you go,And give you to the gods.
Love is not love which alters when it alterations finds. Sonnet 116
Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that’s put to use more gold begets.
I charge thee, fling away ambition. By that sin fell the angels.
I have no spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itselfAnd falls on the other.
I thrice presented him a kingly crown. Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Verily, I swear, ’tis better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perk’d up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.
Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.
Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.
Doubt thou the stars are fire Doubt thou the sun doth moveDoubt truth to be a liar But never doubt I love
Our doubts are traitors, and make us loose the good that we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.
Shall we their fond pageant see?Lord, what fools these mortals be!
His jest shall savour but a shallow wit, when thousands more weep than did laugh it.
To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil!Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit!I dare damnation
Hot from hell. Caesar’s spirit raging in revenge. Cry,havoc! And let slip the dogs of war.
Thou calledst me a dog before thou hadst a cause,But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.
But virtue, as it never will be moved,Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven,So lust, though to a radiant angel linked,Will sate itself in a celestial bedAnd prey on garbage.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.— Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!
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.
LEAR: …yet you see how this world goes.GLOS.: I see it feelingly.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
To die, to sleep – To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub,For in this sleep of death what dreams may come…
More are men’s ends marked than their lives before.The setting sun, the music at the close,As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,Writ in remembrance more than things long past.
I will have thee, as our rarer monsters are, painted upon a pole,and underwrit: “Here you may see the tyrant, Macbeth
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,Shakes so my single state of manThat function is smothered in surmise,And nothing is but what is not.
Beshrew your eyes,They have o’erlook’d me and divided me;One half of me is yours, the other half yours,Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,And so all yours.
To die is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying when a man thereby liveth is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
I would forget it fain,But oh, it presses to my memory,Like damnèd guilty deeds to sinners’ minds.
What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hathsuch meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as whenThe bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,Her ashes new-create another heirAs great in admiration as herself.
Not I; I must be found;My parts, my title, and my perfect soul,Shall manifest me rightly.
He hath always but slightly, known himself…King Lear
OH ROMEO. THOU ART ROMEO. WILL YOU MARRY ME. THOU ART ROMEO.
Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard,A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of DenmarkIs by a forged process of my deathRankly abused: but know, thou noble youth,The serpent that did sting thy father’s lifeNow wears his crown.
As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.
He was a man, take him for all in all,I shall not look upon his like again.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,I am the most offending soul alive.
Mine honor is my life; both grow in one.Take honor from me, and my life is done.
What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.
Stars hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires: The eyes wink at the hand; yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see
Time shall unfold what pleated cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.
I would not put a thief in my mouth to steal my brains.
His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend. His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract.
Come what come may, time and the hour run through the roughest day.
Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark. (Act 5, Scene 2)
Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world.
Had he not resembled My father as he slept I had done’t!” Macbeth
How now! Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.” Lady Macbeth
Unsex me here and fill me from crown to toe full of direst cruelty That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose.” Macbeth
I profess myself an enemy to all other joys, which the most precious square of sense possesses, and find I am alone felicitate in your dear highness love.
If e’er again I meet him beard to beard, he’s mine or I am his.
Therefore love moderately. Long love doth so. Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thyeyes—and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,To the last syllable of recorded time;And all our yesterdays have lighted foolsThe way to dusty death.- Macbeth Act V, Scene V
She will outstrip all praise and make it halt behind her.
O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains!” – Cassio (Act II, Scene iii)
Oh, devil, devil!If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears,Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.Out of my sight!
I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that’s in me should set hell on fire.
When devils will the blackest sins put onThey do suggest at first with heavenly shows
No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
If I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle I would teach them should be to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;It is the green-ey’d monster, which doth mockThe meat it feeds on.
Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.
The Weird Sisters, hand in hand,Posters of the sea and land,Thus do go, about, about,Thrice to thine, thrice to mine,And thrice again to make up nine.Peace, the charm’s wound up.
Romeo: I dreamt a dream tonight.Mercutio: And so did I.Romeo: Well, what was yours?Mercutio: That dreamers often lie.
Benvolio: What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?Romeo: Not having that, which, having, makes them short.
…and when he dies, cut him out in little stars, and the face of heaven will be so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no heed to the garish sun.
These violent delights have violent endsAnd in their triump die, like fire and powderWhich, as they kiss, consume
Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream
All causes shall give way: I am in bloodStepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go o’er.
The Play’s the Thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/ But in ourselves.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.
And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover,To entertain these fair well-spoken days, —I am determined to prove a villain,And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.
Your face, my thane, is as a book where menMay read strange matters. To beguile the time,Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,But be the serpent under’t.
The sweetest honey is loathsome in its own deliciousness. And in the taste destroys the appetite. Therefore, love moderately.
You are thought here to the most senseless and fit man for the job.
Yet but three come one more.Two of both kinds make up four.Ere she comes curst and sad.Cupid is a knavish lad.Thus to make poor females mad.
O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping.
By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me.
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eyeThan twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,And I am proof against their enmity.
And since you know you cannot see yourself,so well as by reflection, I, your glass,will modestly discover to yourself,that of yourself which you yet know not of.
My Crown is in my heart, not on my head:Not deck’d with Diamonds, and Indian stones:Nor to be seen: my Crown is call’d Content,A Crown it is, that seldom Kings enjoy.
But Kate, dost thou understand thus much English? Canst thou love me?”Catherine: “I cannot tell.”Henry: “Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I’ll ask them.
If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul.
O, that he were here to write me down an ass! But, masters, remember, that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.
I can call spirits from the vasty deep.”Why so can I, or so can any man. But will they come when you do call for them?
They are the books, the arts, the academes,That show, contain and nourish all the world.
Thou whoreson zed! Thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. *all cheer for Shakespearean insults*
But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause
She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.
Life is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing
Pleasure and revenge have ears more deaf than adders to the voice of any true decision.
What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by.Richard loves Richard; that is, I and I.
If I could write the beauty of your eyesAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,The age to come would say ‘this poet lies! Such heaven never touched earthly faces
Must I observe you? Must I stand & crouchUnder your testy humour? By the gods, You shall digest the venom ofyour spleen,Though it do split you, for, from thisday forth, I’ll use you for my mirth, yea,for my laughter, when you are waspish.
How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, Reason none, If what parts, can so remain.
Timon: I’ll beat thee, but I should infect my hands.
I’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two and wear my dagger with the braver grace
I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part.
And shake the yoke of inauspicious starsFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!
For all that beauty that doth cover theeIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me.How can I then be elder than thou art?
To give yourself away keep yourself still,And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.
Then of thy beauty do I question make,That thou among the wastes of time must go,Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,And die as fast as they see others grow.
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,Nor the furious winter’s rages;
This is a way to kill a wife with kindness,And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour.He that knows better how to tame a shrew,Now let him speak. ‘Tis charity to show.
She vied so fast, protesting oath after oath,that in a twink she won me to her love.O, you are novices. ‘Tis a world to seeHow tame, when men and women are alone,A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.
Beatrice: I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.Benedick: What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?
BEROWNE: What time o’ day?ROSALINE: The hour that fools should ask.
For I am born to tame you, Kate,And bring you from a wild Kate to a KateComfortable as other household Kates.
Mother, I will look to like. If looking liking moves.
I have drunk,and seen the spider.”(Leontine, Act II Scene I)
From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:They are the ground, the books, the academes,From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.
We number nothing that we spend for you;Our duty is so rich, so infinite,That we may do it still without accompt.Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,That we, like savages, may worship it.
Give me my Romeo. And when I shall die,Take him and cut him out in little stars,And he will make the face of heaven so fineThat all the world will be in love with nightAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.
Weaving spiders, come not here, Hence, you long legged spinners, hence! Beetles black, approach not here, worm nor snail, do no offense.
Go, prick thy face and over-red thy fear,Thou lily-livered boy.
Of all mad matches never was the likeBeing mad herself, she’s madly mated.
Get you gone, you dwarf,You minimus of hindering knotgrass made,You bead, you acorn!
Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh,Your vows to her and me, put in two scales,Will even weigh, and both as light as tales.
Brief as the lightning in the collied night;That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and Earth,And ere a man hath power to say “Behold!”The jaws of darkness do devour it up.So quick bright things come to confusion.
To sue to live, I find I seek to die; And, seeking death, find life.
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,Knew you not Pompey?
Mad I call it, for to define true madness, what is’t to be nothing else but mad?
Alack, when once our grace we have forgot,Nothing goes right; we would and we would not.
He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet
You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths’ wives and conned them out of rings?
JAQUES: Rosalind is your love’s name?ORLANDO: Yes, just.JAQUES: I do not like her name.ORLANDO: There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
Hang there like a fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!-Posthumus LeonatusAct V, Scene V
Diseases desperate grown,By desperate appliance are relieved,Or not at all.
Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fairTo be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.
Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.
Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for I know / When though didst hate him worst, thou loved’st him better / Than ever thou loved’st Cassius.
Lucentio: I read that I profess, the Art of Love.Bianca: And may you prove, sir, master of your art!Lucentio: While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart!
I think he’ll be to Rome as is the osprey to the fish, who takes it by sovereignty of nature.
We will meet; and there we may rehearse mostobscenely and courageously.Shakespeare, Midsummer Night’s Dream. Spoken by Bottom, Act I Sc. 2
More grief to hide than hate to utter love. Polonius, Hamlet.
In the corrupted currents of this worldOffence’s gilded hand may shove by justice,And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itselfBuys out the law. . . (Claudius, from Hamlet, Act 3, scene 3)
Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal the mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne.
Middle Tennessee? Really? My bracket is more busted than Screech’s face during puberty.
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, and they shall live, and he in them still green.
You see we do, yet see you but our handsAnd this the bleeding business they have done:Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful
In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue and white;Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery,Buckled below fair knighthood’s bending knee;Fairies use flower for their charactery.
it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance
And thus I clothe my naked villainyWith odd old ends stol’n out of holy writ;And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
See you now your bait of falsehood take this carp of truth; and thus do we of wisdom and of reach, with windlasses and with assays of bias, by indirections find directions out.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,/ Wherein the…enemy does much.
Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.
When we our betters see bearing our woes,We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
O! how shall summer’s honey breath hold out, / Against the wrackful siege of battering days?
Macbeth does murder sleep – the innocent sleep,Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, chief nourisher in life’s feast.
Oh why rebuke you him that loves you so? / Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes ‘bove wisdom, grace and fear:And you all know, securityIs mortals’ chiefest enemy.
What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,That he should weep for her?
The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures. Lady Macbeth
The sweat of industry would dry and die, But for the end it works to.
What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night,So stumblest on my counsel?*Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*
A peevish self-willed harlotry it is.*She’s a stubborn little brat.*
What cannot be avoided t’were childish weakness to lament or fear.
A walking shadow a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.
Why then the world’s mine oyster Which I with sword will open.
Sweet are the uses of adversity Which like the toad ugly and venomous Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
Have more than thou showest Speak less than thou knowest.
Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety.
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
Golden lads and girls all must As chimney-sweepers come to dust.
When that the poor have cried Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious And Brutus is an honourable man.
Cowards die many times before their deaths the valiant never taste of death but once.
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs Being purged a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes Being vex’d a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
To business that we love we rise betime And go to it with delight.
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.
His life was gentle and the elements So mixed in him that nature might stand up
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy But not express’d in fancy rich not gaudy For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
Conscience is but a word that cowards use Devised at first to keep the strong in awe.
I earn that I eat get that I wear owe no man hate envy no man’s happiness glad of other men’s good content with my harm.
Cowards die many times before their deaths the valiant never taste of death but once.
But screw your courage to the sticking place and we’ll not fail.
I care not a man can die but once we owe God a death.
The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch Which hurts and is desired.
Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it.
No ’tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door but ’tis enough ’twill serve: ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered I warrant for this world.
The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns.
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.
Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it.
Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
There is a divinity that shapes our ends Rough-hew them how we will.
Come what come may time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
How poor are they that have not patience? What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
Let your own discretion be your tutor suit the action to the word the word to the action.
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?
Our doubts are traitors And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt.
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we often might win by fearing to attempt.
We are such stuff As dreams are made on and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
Have more than thou showest Speak less than thou knowest.
All the world’s a stage And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances And one man in his time plays many parts.
Sleep that knits up the ravell’d slave of care The death of each day’s life sore labour’s bath Balm of hurt minds great nature’s second course Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
The evil that men do lives after them The good is oft interred with their bones.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse – As patches set upon a little breach Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patched.
God has given you one face and you make yourselves another.
The fault dear Brutus is not in our stars but in ourselves.
Fairies black grey green and white You moonshine revellers and shades of night.
I have touch’d the highest point of all my greatness And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting.
I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.
O that men’s ears should be To counsel deaf but not to flattery!
The fool doth think he is wise but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
Let me embrace thee sour adversity for wise men say it is the wisest course.
Happy thou art not for what thou hast not still thou striv’est to get and what thou hast forget’est.
My crown is called content a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
There is a tide in the affairs of men Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.
Those friends thou hast and their adoption tried grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.
He does it with a better grace but I do it more natural.
Some are born great some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon ’em.
What’s gone and what’s past help Should be past grief.
Unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone.
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at I am not what I am.
‘Tis not enough to help the feeble up but to support him after.
He was a man take him for all in all I shall not look upon his like again.
God made him and therefore let him pass for a man.
Men must endure their going hence even as their coming hither ripeness is all.
Ay sir to be honest as this world goes is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
For Brutus is an honourable man So are they all all honourable men.
Honour pricks me on. Yea but how if honour prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? A word.
True hope is swift and flies with swallow’s wings Kings it makes Gods and meaner creatures kings.
A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it never in the tongue Of him that makes it.
Men are April when they woo December when they wed.
Reputation is an idle and most false imposition oft got without merit and lost without deserving.
This was the most unkindest cut of all For when the noble Caesar saw him stab Ingratitude more strong than traitor’s arm Quite vanquish’d him then burst his mighty heart.
That he is mad ’tis true ’tis true ’tis pity And pity ’tis ’tis true.
Though this be madness yet there is method in ‘t.
Be thou as chaste as ice as pure as snow thou shalt not escape calumny.
O God that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should with joy pleas-ance revel and applause transform ourselves into beasts!
Self-love my liege is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.
Alas poor Yorick! I knew him Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest of most excellent fancy.
A Daniel come to judgment! yea a Daniel! O wise young judge how I do honor thee!
Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves.
Give every man thine ear but few thy voice Take each man’s censure but reserve thy judgment.
O judgment! thou are fled to brutish beasts And men have lost their reason!
The jury passing on the prisoner’s life May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two Guiltier than him they try.
This bond is forfeit And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh.
Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just And he but naked though lock’d up in steel Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
Yet do I fear thy nature It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.
And seeing ignorance is the curse of God Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.
The first thing we do let’s kill all the lawyers.
If music be the food of love play on Give me excess of it that surfeiting The appetite may sicken and so die. That strain again! it had a dying fall: O it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound.
Out out brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow.
Love sought is good but given unsought is better.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.
Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them – but not for love.
Ay me! for aught that I ever could read Could ever hear by tale or history The course of true love never did run smooth.
Give me my Romeo and when he shall die. Take him and cut him out in little stars And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.
Love sought is good but given unsought is better.
He was a man take him for all in all I shall not look upon his like again.
His life was gentle and the elements So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world This was a man!
Men are April when they woo December when they wed maids are May when they are maids but the sky changes when they are wives.
Goodnight! Goodnight! Parting is such sweet sorrow That I shall say goodnight ’til it be morrow.
God has given you one face and you make yourselves another.
Tis but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.
The worst is not sSo long as we can say “This is the worst.”
Neither a borrower nor a lender be for loan oft loses both itself and friend and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.
Murder most foul as in the best it is But this most foul strange and unnatural.
For murder though it have no tongue will speak With most miraculous organ.
The man that hath no music in himself Nor is no moved with concord of sweet sounds Is fit for treasons stratagems and spoils.
But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed.
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
Tis not the many oaths that makes the truth But the plain single vow that is vow’d true.
I’ll take thy word for faith not ask thine oath Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both.
Come what may time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
There is a tide in the affairs of men Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.
My crown is called content a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.
The world’s mine oyster Which I with sword will open.
Good-night good-night! parting is such sweet sorrow That I shall say good-night till it be morrow.
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
Many strokes though with a little axe Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak.
For there was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently.
There are more things in heaven and earth Horatio Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
There was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently.
The fault dear Brutus is not in our stars But in ourselves that we are underlings.
My words fly up my thoughts remain below Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
We do pray for mercy and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy.
We ignorant of ourselves beg often our own harms which the wise powers deny us for our good.
He that doth the ravens feed. Yea providently caters for the sparrow. Be comfort to my age!
He that doth the ravens feed. Yea providently caters for the sparrow. Be comfort to my age!
There is a divinity that shapes our ends Rough-hew them how we will.
I have no other but a woman’s reason. I think him so because I think him so.
The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation that away Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.
Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault dear Brutus is not in our stars But in ourselves that we are underlings.
Self-love my liege is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
The fault dear Brutus is not in our stars but in ourselves.
I am disgrac’d impeach’d and baffled here – Pierc’d to the soul with slander’s venom’d spear.
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care The death of each day’s life sore labour’s bath Balm of hurt minds great nature’s second course Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
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.
What’s gone and what’s past help should be past grief.
When sorrows come they come not as single spies But in battalions!
He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.
If all the year were playing holidays To sport would be as tedious as to work.
Things done well and with care exempt themselves from fear.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind The thief doth fear each bush an officer.
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child.
If you can look into the seeds of time and say which grain will grow and which will not speak then to me.
Cowards die many times before their deaths the valiant never taste of death but once.
Past and to come seems best things present worst.
Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York.
A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another!
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
Many strokes though with a little axe hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak.
How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Many a man’s tongue shakes out his master’s undoing.
When I was at home I was in a better place but travellers must be content.
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
I love thee I love but thee With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold And the stars grow old.
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
I love thee I love but thee With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold And the stars grow old.
Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety.
Her voice was ever soft Gentle and low an excellent thing in woman.
We few we happy few we band of brothers For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.
Can snore upon the flint when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard.
For some must watch while some must sleep thus runs the world away.
Great men may jest with saints ’tis wit in them But in the less foul profanation.
Age cannot wither her nor custom stale her infinite variety other women cloy the appetites they feed but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.
Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety.
Sigh no more ladies sigh no more Men were deceivers ever One foot in sea and one on shore To one thing constant never.
Men are April when they woo December when they wed.
She’s beautiful and therefore to be woo’d: She is a woman therefore to be won.
O gentle Romeo If thou dost love pronounce it faithfully. Or if thou think’st I am too quickly won I’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay So thou wilt woo: but else not for the world.
My word fly up my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world now lies he there And none so poor to do him reverence.
Taffeta phrases silken terms precise Three-piled hyperboles spruce affectation Figures pedantical.
If all the year were playing holidays To sport would be as tedious as to work.
All the world’s a stage And all the men and women merely players.
Why then the world’s mine oyster Which I with sword will open.
The worst is not so long as we can say “This is the worst.”
Rumour is a pipeBlown by surmises, jealousies, conjecturesAnd of so easy and so plain a stopThat the blunt monster with uncounted heads,The still-discordant wavering multitude,Can play upon it.
RUMOUR:”Upon my tongues continual slanders ride,The which in every language I pronounce,Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
Many a man’s tongue shakes out his master’s undoing.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.
Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
Cowards die many times before their deaths the valiant never taste of death but once.
The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, which hurts and is desired.
And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish’d from myself And Silvia is myself: banish’d from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment!
I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.
But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbl’d shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Talking isn’t doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well and yet words are not deeds.
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
The evil that men do lives after them the good is oft interred with their bones.
God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
Ignorance is the curse of God knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.
Things done well and with a care, exempt themselves from fear.
Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.
Faith, there hath been many great men that have flattered the people who ne’er loved them.
Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.
Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.
The evil that men do lives after them the good is oft interred with their bones.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottage princes’ palaces.