William Shakespeare Quotes
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QUINCE Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE What is Thisby? a wandering knight? QUINCE It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.
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My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
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Coward dogs most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten runs far before them.
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Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God, My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
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Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.
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We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
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Weariness can snore upon the flint when resting sloth finds the down pillow hard.
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Brevity is the soul of wit.
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The king is but a man, as I am; the violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions; his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing.
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The cunning livery of hell.
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By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.
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I'll note you in my book of memory.
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England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune.
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The weariest and most loathed worldly life, that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise, to what we fear of death.
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Hasty marriage seldom proveth well.
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A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit; How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!
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Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.
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Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.
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Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.
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One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.
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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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For a noble heart, the most precious gift becomes poor, when the giver stops loving.
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Equality of two domestic powers Breeds scrupulous faction.
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And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, Contagious blastments are are most imminent.