William Shakespeare Quotes
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
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Every offense is not a hate at first.
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I can give the loser leave to chide.
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For thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.
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O, had I but followed the arts!
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My prophecy is but half his journey yet, For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet.
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What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.
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Thou frothy tickle-brained hedge-pig!
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For so work the honey bees, creatures that by a rule in nature teach the act of order to a peopled kingdom.
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Few love to hear the sins they love to act.
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I wish you well and so I take my leave, I Pray you know me when we meet again.
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Wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty like a Scotch jig--and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes repentance and with his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.
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A breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences.
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Men must learn now with pity to dispense; For policy sits above conscience.
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Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own
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That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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Grief makes one hour ten.
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Let every man be master of his time.
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O, call back yesterday, bid time return
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Constant you are, But yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.
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This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.
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Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.
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To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
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Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.