William Shakespeare Quotes
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Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.
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Love adds a precious seeing to the eye.
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There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.
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Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.
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Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
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I'll teach you differences.
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Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
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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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But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.
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Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.
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Time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will.
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There is a world elsewhere.
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If [God] send me no husband, for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening.
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My wits begin to turn.
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To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.
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If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still.
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How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?
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Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend.
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Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.
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I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; not the soldier's which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
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Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows As false as dicers' oaths.
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See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath! He that but fears the thing he would not know, Hath, by instinct, knowledge from others' eyes, That what he feared is chanced.
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.