William Shakespeare Quotes
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Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
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Hardness ever of hardness is mother.
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But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.
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The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.
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He is deformed, crooked, old and sere, Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind; Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.
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And it is very much lamented,... That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow.
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Give me to drink mandragora.
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On Rumor's tongue continual slanders ride.
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O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.
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I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.
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Good fortune then! To make me blest or cursed'st among men.
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Take you me for a sponge?
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Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.
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It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions.
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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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Things done well and with a care, exempt themselves from fear.
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Time's glory is to command contending kings, To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light.
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There is nothing in the world so much like prayer as music is.
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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
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I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And the wind blows it from the Capitol.
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I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting
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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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Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a seive.
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Temptation: the fiend at my elbow.