William Shakespeare Quotes
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Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.
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O how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes favors! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have, and when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.
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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
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Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.
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More can I bear than you dare execute.
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But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.
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These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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Sweet are the uses of adversity
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If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends; for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend?
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Presume not that I am the thing I was.
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O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!
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Look how the world's poor people are amazed at apparitions, signs and prodigies!
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God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
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Nothing in his life became him like leaving it.
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Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.
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O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do.
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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
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Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.
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So may the outward shows be least themselves; The world is still deceived with ornament.
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Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.
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To be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.
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This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,--This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
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O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
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Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.