William Shakespeare Quotes
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Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
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The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
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O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
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I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.
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Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.
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No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.
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Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
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These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.
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We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
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We are such stuff that dreams are made of.
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More can I bear than you dare execute.
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The Devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape.
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Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.
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Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?
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So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!
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you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois'd with herself in either eye; But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now seems best.
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You are strangely troublesome.
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This is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy.
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I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.
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Adversity makes strange bedfellows.
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My salad days, When I was green in judgment.
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Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.
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The weary sun hath made a golden set And by the bright tract of his fiery car Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.
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How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.