William Shakespeare Quotes
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It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't.
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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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A virtuous and a Christianlike conclusion-- To pray for them that have done scathe to us.
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Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now.
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I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.
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When law can do no right, Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong.
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Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
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The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.
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This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.
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I hate ingratitude more in a man than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, or any taint of vice whose strong corruption inhabits our frail blood".
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What is past is prologue.
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I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
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Love is begun by time and time qualifies the spark and fire of it.
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To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.
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I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
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The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.
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Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.
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But pearls are fair; and the old saying is: Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes.
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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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Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.