William Shakespeare Quotes
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Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
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You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
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A young man married is a man that's marred.
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Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.
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Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.
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She's gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her.
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You are an alchemist; make gold of that.
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You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.
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Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
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Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.
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Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence!
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So doth the greater glory dim the less: A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by.
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A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue eye, and sunken; which you have not: an unquestionable spirit; which you have not: a beard neglected; which you have not: — but I pardon you for that; for, simply, your having1 in beard is a younger brother's revenue: — Then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unhanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation.
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He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
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I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list!
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Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief
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Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny. It hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne And fall of many kings.
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To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
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Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it Without a prompter.
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Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
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Greatness knows itself.
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To saucy doubts and fears.
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The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.
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Either our history shall with full mouth Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave, Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth, Not worshipped with a waxen epitaph.