William Shakespeare Quotes
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In nature there's no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind.
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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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I am wealthy in my friends.
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A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!
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Hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig.
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How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!
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Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools.
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Suffer love; a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
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I had rather chop this hand off at a blow, And with the other fling it at thy face.
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Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
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O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet fondly loves!
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Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought.
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Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart; And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love.
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
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Where the greater malady is fixed, The lesser is scarce felt.
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Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
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The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.
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What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.
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Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?
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Cry "havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.
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Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
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O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
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O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy, not born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies.