William Shakespeare Quotes
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We must not stint Our necessary actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever, As rav'nous fishes, do a vessel follow That is new-trimmed, but benefit no further Than vainly longing.
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In nature's infinite book of secrecy A little I can read.
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Good wombs have borne bad sons." -- (Miranda, I:2)
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And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love.
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O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school; And though she be but little, she is fierce.
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For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace.
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Self – love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self – neglecting.
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I have not slept one wink.
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What a fool honesty is.
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If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
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This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid; Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents.
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Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.
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Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, but still remember what the Lord hath done.
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Your worm is your only emperor for diet; we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.
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You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound.
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Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind.
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Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
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I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
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Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
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Give me a bowl of wine, In this I bury all unkindness.
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If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not
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Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.
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Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.
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O, that our fathers would applause our loves, To seal our happiness with hteir consents!