William Shakespeare Quotes
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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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Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits devil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence; the next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature.
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For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.
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He was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Amongst the rar'st of good ones- sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty that made barren the swell'd boast Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the eye- CYMBELINE.
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This above all; to thine own self be true.
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He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
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Thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast.
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What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?
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I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.
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Our wills and fates do so contrary run.
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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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So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.
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O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
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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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Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.
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What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.
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When the mind's free, The Body's delicate.
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Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
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Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.
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Truly the souls of men are full of dread: Ye cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full of fear.
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This we prescribe, though no physician; Deep malice makes too deep incision; Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed; Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.
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How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!
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Forget, forgive; conclude, and be agreed.
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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.