William Shakespeare Quotes
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We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy.
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To hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature.
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He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.
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Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.
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Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
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Oh, I have passed a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams!
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Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
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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.
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O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple Hell?
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There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee.
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The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.
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You must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.
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There's many a man hath more hair than wit.
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Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!
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Never shame to hear what you have nobly done
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Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud's town march, And in the temple of the great Jupiter Our peace we'll ratify, seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were washed, with such a peace.
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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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A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.
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I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
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Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
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These blessed candles of the night.
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To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! 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 tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
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A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain,... makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes.
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Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure.