William Shakespeare Quotes
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I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.
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Anger's my meat. I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding.
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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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There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't
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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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Who are the violets now That strew the lap of the new-come spring?
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No man's pie is freed From his ambitious finger.
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Thyself and thy belongings Are not thine own so proper, as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us 't were all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd But to fine issues; nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence, But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines Herself the glory of a creditor - Both thanks and use.
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Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
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Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever
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How my achievements mock me!
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Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
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Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.
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A good heart 'is worth gold.
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One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.
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The end crowns all, And that old common arbitrator, Time, Will one day end it.
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Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
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Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find.
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I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.
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I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world.
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And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed.
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But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
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Time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arm outstretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer.