William Shakespeare Quotes
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You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
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'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
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And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.
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While thou livest keep a good tongue in thy head.
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Hang him, swaggering rascal!
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Condemn the fault and not the actor of it?
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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
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If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumbered here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: If you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.
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If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
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She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared.
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All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
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I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
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If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father.
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He that dies this year is quit for the next.
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So distribution should undo excess, and each man have enough.
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Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee.
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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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Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation
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Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
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O war! thou son of Hell!
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O my good lord, that comfort comes too late, 'Tis like a pardon after execution. That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me; But now I am past all comforts here but prayers.
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But whate'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If you have ever looked on better days, If ever been where bells knoll'd to church, If ever sat at any good man's feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be. . . .
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You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.
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Beauty lives with kindness.