William Shakespeare Quotes
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Conceit in weakest bodies works the strongest.
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A politician... one that would circumvent God.
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Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?
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A young man married is a man that's marred.
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Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.
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You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.
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I swear again, I would not be a queen For all the world.
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Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.
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Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.
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Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
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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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Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
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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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He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
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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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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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Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania
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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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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.
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You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
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Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it Without a prompter.
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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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Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
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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.