William Shakespeare Quotes
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Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land, To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks and true obedience; Too little payment for so great a debt.
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We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
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O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?
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My cousin's a fool, and thou art another.
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Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.
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God bless thee; and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!
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In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.
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Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
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Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger
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Love laughs at locksmiths.
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The Devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape.
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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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Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
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A merry heart goes all the way, - A sad one tires inan hour.
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The fool multitude, that choose by show, not learning more than the fond eye doth teach.
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Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
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We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.
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Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.
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O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.
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Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth.
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What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.
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Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
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I am not mad; I would to heaven I were! For then, 'tis like I should forget myself; O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
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Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.