William Shakespeare Quotes
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Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.
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What a deformed thief this fashion is.
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In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.
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Poor wretches that depend On greatness' favor, dream as I have done; Wake, and find nothing.
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Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind.
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Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.
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Anger's my meat. I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding.
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Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful I take up what's cast away. Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect My love should kindle to inflamed respect. Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Can buy this unprized precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: Thou losest here, a better where to find.
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Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god.
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Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
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Thou mak'st me merry: I am full of pleasure; let us be jocund
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Before the curing of a strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest. Evils that take leave, On their departure most of all show evil.
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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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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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Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves.
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Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant can trickle when she wounds!
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The cheek Is apter than the tongue to tell an errand.
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If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell, But to torment you with my bitter tongue!
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Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
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When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welkin with his big-swollen face?
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Promising is the very air o' th' time; it opens the eyes of expectation. Performance is ever duller for his act; and, but in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most courtly and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.
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Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.
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Making night hideous.
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The truest poetry is the most feigning.