William Shakespeare Quotes
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I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
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A dream itself is but a shadow.
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What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since everyone hath every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you. On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new. Speak of the spring and foison of the year; The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear, And you in every blessèd shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
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I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
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Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire. Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow Of bragging horror. So shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviors from the great, Grow great by your example and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution.
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Soft pity enters an iron gate.
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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows.
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Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation
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You dull ass will not mend his pace with beating.
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Condemn the fault and not the actor of it?
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Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt Is once to be resolved.
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O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell.
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Too much to know is to know naught but fame.
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The pleasing punishment that women bear.
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A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
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Thou unfit for any place but hell.
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I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.
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But since the affairs of men rests still incertain, Let's reason with the worst that may befall.
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Hold, or cut bowstrings.
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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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When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
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Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.
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For I am nothing if not critical.
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Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, Where death's approach is seen so terrible!