William Shakespeare Quotes
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Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
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Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our teeples, drowned the cocks! You sulphurour and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man!
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You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.
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Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
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Taste your legs, sire: put them into motion.
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Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
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You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
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So doth the greater glory dim the less: A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by.
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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
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Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.
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But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
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Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.
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Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
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Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief
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Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.
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Bait the hook well. This fish will bite.
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Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.
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Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.
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Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.
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Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.
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Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.
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Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
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Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.
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Is it not strange, that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's bodies!