William Shakespeare Quotes
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But say, my lord, it were not regist'red, Methinks the truth should live from age to age, As 'twere retailed to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day.
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Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.
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What is more miserable than discontent?
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How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!
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That is my home of love: if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged.
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Still constant is a wondrous excellence.
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Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.
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My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself In a wide sea of wax; no levelled malice Infects one comma in the course I hold, But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
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No .... holy father, throw away that thought. Believe not that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom.
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They do not love that do not show their love. The course of true love never did run smooth. Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.
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O constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue! I have a man's mind, but a woman's might.
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Fight to the last gasp.
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O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in't!
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True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
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God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.
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Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!
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There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous men.
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How poor are they that have have not patients.
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Thou whoreson, senseless villain!
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What is the city but the people?
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O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.
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What, keep a week away? Seven days and nights, Eightscore-eight hours, and lovers' absent hours More tedious than the dial eightscore times! O weary reckoning!
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Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.
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By the apostle Paul, shadows tonight Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers.