William Shakespeare Quotes
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I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
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Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
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Every subject's duty is the King's; but every subject's soul is his own. Therefore, should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience; and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him that escapes, it were no sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive the day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare.
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He that dies this year is quit for the next.
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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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Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords!
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You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
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it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance
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And a man's life's no more than to say "One."
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I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
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Gently to hear, kindly to judge.
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He is not great who is not greatly good.
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If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still.
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For my own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
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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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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
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Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.
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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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Hold, or cut bowstrings.
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I dote on his very absence.
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Rest you fair, good signior; Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
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They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad
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Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
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You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.