William Shakespeare Quotes
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Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds.
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In time we hate that which we often fear.
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Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
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If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.
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She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared.
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The color of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set: His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.
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Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
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Many dream not to find, neither deserve, and yet are steeped in favors.
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Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.
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What wouldst thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows?
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A plague on both your houses.
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Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently.
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Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it.
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Time is the king of men.
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Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
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You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care
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The urging of that word, judgment, hath bred a kind of remorse in me.
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Barnes are blessings.
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Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as 'twere, in love, Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity; so fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues.
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Passion makes the will lord of the reason.
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Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.
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O momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
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She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.
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The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.