William Shakespeare Quotes
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Take her away; for she hath lived too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities.
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To offend and judge are distinct offices, And of opposed natures.
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This night I hold an old accustomed feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love; and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
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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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Faith, there hath been many great men that have flattered the people who ne'er loved them.
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Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away
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Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west: The owl, night's herald, shrieks-'tis very late; The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest; And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night.
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Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.
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Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear.
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A very scurvy fellow.
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They love least that let men know their loves.
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One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
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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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A friend should bear his friend's infirmities.
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I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
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I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
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As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
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The sweat of industry would dry and die, But for the end it works to.
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[Marriage is] a world-without-end bargain.
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Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament: They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.
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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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God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.
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As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue
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This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,--This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.