William Shakespeare Quotes
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Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
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Soft pity enters an iron gate.
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They were devils incarnate.
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I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
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There's villainous news abroad.
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Give me a staff of honor for mine age, But not a sceptre to control the world.
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DEMETRIUS Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yield Thy crazed title to my certain right. LYSANDER You have her father's love, Demetrius; Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him.
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Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
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Say, what abridgement have you for this evening? What masque, what music? How shall we beguile The lazy time if not with some delight?
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Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
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I wish you well and so I take my leave, I Pray you know me when we meet again.
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Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?
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There's no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.
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By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endeavour for defence; For courage mounteth with occasion.
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Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, Where death's approach is seen so terrible!
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A poor thing, perhaps, but my own.
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So distribution should undo excess, and each man have enough.
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Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
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I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.
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Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd: For then my thoughts-from far where I abide- Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see: Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself no quiet find.
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Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation
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Men from children nothing differ.
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I wonder that you will still be talking. Nobody marks you.
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O war! thou son of Hell!