William Shakespeare Quotes
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These blessed candles of the night.
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This thought is as a death.
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Truth hath a quiet breast.
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No worse a husband than the best of men.
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If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
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This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away; go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death.
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This above all; to thine own self be true.
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No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns.
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So distribution should undo excess, and each man have enough.
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Let not the world see fear and sad distrust govern the motion of a kingly eye.
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By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has, nor never none Shall mistress be of it save I alone.
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Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
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Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
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As in a theatre, the eyes of men, after a well-graced actor leaves the stage, are idly bent on him that enters next.
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'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.
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What many men desire--that 'many' may be meant By the fool multitude that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, Which pries not to th' interior, but like the martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty.
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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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Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. *Here’s what love is: a smoke made out of lovers' sighs. When the smoke clears, love is a fire burning in your lover’s eyes. If you frustrate love, you get an ocean made out of lovers' tears. What else is love? It’s a wise form of madness. It’s a sweet lozenge that you choke on.*
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For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy.
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Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
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it is not enough to speak, but to speak truee
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Passion makes the will lord of the reason.
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If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.
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Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.