William Shakespeare Quotes
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Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight
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You have witchcraft in your lips
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There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.
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But Kate, dost thou understand thus much English? Canst thou love me?" Catherine: "I cannot tell." Henry: "Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I'll ask them.
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. . . nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As 'twere a careless trifle.
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Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
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An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.
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Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.
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He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.
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Better be with the dead, Whom we to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy.
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What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.
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When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
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The strawberry grows underneath the nettle And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality.
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I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.
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Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate.
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Coward dogs most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten runs far before them.
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Comets importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars.
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O, the blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare!
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Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
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Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!
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He that keeps not crust nor crum Weary of all, shall want some.
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What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours.
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Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
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If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.