William Shakespeare Quotes
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There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines: — there 's rue for you; and here's some for me: — we may call it, herb of grace o'Sundays: — you may wear your rue with a difference. — There's a daisy: — I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died: — They say, he made a good end.
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Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession.
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Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
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We must not make a scarecrow of the law, Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, And let it keep one shape till custom make it Their perch, and not their terror.
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Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?
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Let me confess that we two must be twain, although our undivided loves are one.
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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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Such thanks as fits a king's remembrance.
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God's will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle!
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From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.
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Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice, He offers in another's enterprise; But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be, Yet hold I off.
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Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.
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Cry "havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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I wonder men dare trust themselves with men.
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Good fortune then! To make me blest or cursed'st among men.
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It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.
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The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor's edge invisible.
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She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
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There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.
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The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.
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The golden age is before us, not behind us.
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Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!
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At once, good night- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once.
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Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues.