William Shakespeare Quotes
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He must needs go that the devil drives.
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False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
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Thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast.
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They are hare-brain'd slaves.
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Greatness, once fallen out with fortune, must fall out with men too.
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O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
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He is as full of valor as of kindness. Princely in both.
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To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
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Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won
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The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
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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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Ten masts make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life's a miracle.
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What's done is done. The joy is in the doing.
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Beware the ides of March.
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His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend. His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract.
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There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.
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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.
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This above all; to thine own self be true.
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But virtue never will be mov'd, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven.
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Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
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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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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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Time's the king of men; he's both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.
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Remember thee! Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe.