William Shakespeare Quotes
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This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.
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However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God.
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It was always yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common.
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The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.
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Love's not love When it is mingled with regards that stand Aloof from th' entire point.
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It is not vain glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber.
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Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, where manners ne'er were preached.
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And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.
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I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please, for so fools have.
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O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman's services are due.
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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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Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry
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More matter with less art.
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Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
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Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live regist'red upon our brazen tombs And then grace us in the disgrace of death; When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, Th' endeavor of this present breath may buy That honor which shall bate his scythe's keen edge And make us heirs of all eternity.
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Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.
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Why, friends, you go to do you know not what: Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not: I must tell you then: You have forgot the will I told you of. . . . . Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. . . . . Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbours and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs for ever, common pleasures, To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! when comes such another?
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The will is infinite and the execution confin'd, the desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.
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A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
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There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently
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Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.
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Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.
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The thing of courage As rous'd with rage doth sympathise, And, with an accent tun'd in self-same key, Retorts to chiding fortune.
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So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend, or be rid on't.