William Shakespeare Quotes
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Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
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Hold, or cut bowstrings.
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Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow; Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage.
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There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee.
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And a man's life's no more than to say "One."
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Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.
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Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.
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Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.
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Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won?
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Rest you fair, good signior; Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
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Come away, come away, Death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death no one so true did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strewn: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!
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But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?
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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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Men from children nothing differ.
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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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Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation
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Those that do teach young babes Do it with gentle means and easy tasks.
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I almost die for food, and let me have it!
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Had it pleas'd heaven To try me with affliction * * * I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience.
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Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.
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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
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O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple Hell?
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Miracles are ceased; and therefore we must needs admit the means, how things are perfected.
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And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.