William Shakespeare Quotes
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In nature's infinite book of secrecy A little I can read.
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That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
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I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.
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And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed.
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To whom God will, there be the victory.
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Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school.
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'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!
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Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.
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You have witchcraft in your lips, there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs.
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Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
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Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind.
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So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenced in stronds afar remote.
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Out of her favour, where I am in love.
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Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn.
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Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes; Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them — Ding-dong, bell.
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He's a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.
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Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.
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As full of spirit as the month of May, and as gorgeous as the sun in Midsummer.
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Give me a bowl of wine, In this I bury all unkindness.
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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
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There's daggers in men's smiles.
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I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
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Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator.