William Shakespeare Quotes
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Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.
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But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, 'That's good that's gone.
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Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.
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As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
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A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.
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Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares, And think perchance they'll sell; if not, The lustre of the better yet to show Shall show the better.
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Her father lov'd me; oft invited me; Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd.
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Then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
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A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.
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O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.
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Do not for one repulse, forego the purpose That you resolved to effect.
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This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions; these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion.
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My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.
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Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.
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May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode! But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves.
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The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.
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Beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time.
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The sense of death is most in apprehension.
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I wish you all the joy that you can wish.
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Love hath made thee a tame snake
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Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers, lacking--God warn us!--matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
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Take her away; for she hath lived too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities.
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Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
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It may do good; pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride, for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees.