William Shakespeare Quotes
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Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!
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Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves, are 'clept All by the name of dogs: the valued file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The housekeeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him closed.
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Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.
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A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*
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Now, good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!
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Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court?
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His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.
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Methinks a father Is at the nuptial of his son a guest That best becomes the table.
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So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
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He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.
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To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars.
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There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old.
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For some must watch, while some must sleep So runs the world away
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For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
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But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
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The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.
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Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog.
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Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall have my pocket picked?
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Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!
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I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.
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You are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any.
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All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.
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The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.
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Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?