William Shakespeare Quotes
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There is nothing in the world so much like prayer as music is. ~William Shakespeare
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If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not toalter me.
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Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
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But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this that you call love to bea sect or scion.... It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will.
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All dark and comfortless.
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I wonder that you will still be talking. Nobody marks you.
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What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?
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Every why has a wherefore.
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If I lose my honor, I lose myself: better I were not yours Than yours so branchless.
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Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.
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Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; for in my youth I never did apply hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; and did not, with unbashful forehead, woo the means of weakness and debility: therefore my age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
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No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.
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Children wish fathers looked but with their eyes; fathers that children with their judgment looked; and either may be wrong.
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Swift as shadow, short as any dream
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My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
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Women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.
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Either to die the death or to abjure For ever the society of men. Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires; Know of your youth, examine well your blood, Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice, You can endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood, To undergo such maiden pilgrimage; But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd, Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness.
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The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us.
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That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
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Love reasons without reason.