William Shakespeare Quotes
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Hate pollutes the mind.
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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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O, had I but followed the arts!
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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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Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.
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Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights; Four nights will quickly dream away the time; And then the moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven, shall behold the night of our solemnities.
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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Adversity makes strange bedfellows.
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This liberty is all that I request.
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They love least that let men know their loves.
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Sin will pluck on sin.
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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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By being seldom seen, I could not stir But like a comet I was wondered at.
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I am a subject, And I challenge law. Attorneys are denied me, And therefore personally I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent.
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'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.
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The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
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I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster!
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Officers, what offence have these men done? DOGBERRY Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.
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Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
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in black ink my love may still shine bright.
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I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
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Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.
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Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.
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I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others.