William Shakespeare Quotes
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By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
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Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason for his physician, he admits him not for his counsellor.
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Come now, what masques, what dances shall we have To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bedtime?
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O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.
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You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
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You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die.
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To beguile the time, look like the time.
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O, that this too too solid flesh would melt Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, (135) Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: (140) So excellent a king; that was, to this.
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What, can the devil speak true?
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Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?
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Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!
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Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.
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A light wife doth make a heavy husband.
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Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side
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I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so.
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Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
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Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant can trickle when she wounds!
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Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put sullen black incontinent. I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after. Grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier.
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I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.
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If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in mine arms.
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Commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways.
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The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.
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Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so; Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.
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Tongues I'll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show. . . .