William Shakespeare Quotes
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She told her, while she kept it, 'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father Entirely to her love, but if she lost it Or made a gift of it, my father's eye Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt After new fancies.
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Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice To change true rules for odd inventions.
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Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.
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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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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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Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.
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If there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another: I hope, upon familiarity will grow more contempt.
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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, For I am armed so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind
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No sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage.
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To persist in doing wrong extenuates not the wrong, but makes it much more heavy.
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Listen to many, speak to a few.
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I can see his pride Peep through each part of him.
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Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.
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The one I love is the son of the one I hate!
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Guiltiness will speak, though tongues were out of use
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My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.
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DEMETRIUS Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yield Thy crazed title to my certain right. LYSANDER You have her father's love, Demetrius; Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him.
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For this relief, much thanks
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The urging of that word, judgment, hath bred a kind of remorse in me.
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But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens!
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He that dies this year is quit for the next.
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My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
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A light heart lives long.