William Shakespeare Quotes
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Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, but still remember what the Lord hath done.
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In nature's infinite book of secrecy A little I can read.
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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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When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
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Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.
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Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up tine, supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness, or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills.
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Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.
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And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love.
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I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
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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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The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
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O, I do not like that paying back, 'tis a double labor.
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For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.
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I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
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Some men there are love not a gaping pig, some that are mad if they behold a cat, and others when the bagpipe sings I the nose cannot contain their urine.
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I have not slept one wink.
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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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The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.
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What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time?
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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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To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
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For the success, Although particular, shall give a scantling Of good or bad unto the general; And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mass Of things to come at large.
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Truth will come to sight; murder cannot be hid long.
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Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.