William Shakespeare Quotes
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Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius: By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius: It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet: Or like a whale? Polonius: Very like a whale.
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I was too young that time to value her, But now I know her. If she be a traitor, Why, so am I. We still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together, And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, Still we went coupled and inseparable.
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The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.
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You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
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Juliet is the east and i am the sun.
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Who are the violets now That strew the lap of the new-come spring?
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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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Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
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Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
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RUMOUR: "Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.
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When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
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A woman that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright, being a watch, But being watched that it may still go right!
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Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!
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O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle.
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Thou art the Mars of malcontents.
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What's the news? None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest, Then is doomsday near.
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Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
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Suit the action to the word, the word to the action.
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My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
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Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.
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At once, good night- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once.
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What a piece of work is a man
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I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.