William Shakespeare Quotes
For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.
Conscience is a blushing, shamefaced spirit than mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles.
Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls; Conscience is but a work that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe: Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law!
Thou hast her, France; let her be thine, for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison.
Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canter dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack, when it begins to rain, And leave thee in a storm.
My master hath been an honorable gentleman; tricks he hath had in him which gentlemen have.
I am thy father's spirit; Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night And, for the day, confin'd to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purg'd away.
Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live But in a dream of friendship, To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnished friends?
Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most, to my capacity.
Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.
Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
If I for my opinion bleed, opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt, and keep me on the side where still I am.
In God's name cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war.
If yon bethink yourself of any crime Unreconcil'd as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight.
Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All many be well.
A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as dot an inland brook Into the main of waters.
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.
Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.
Fair ladies, masked, are roses in their bud; Dismasked, the damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
For there's no motion That tends to vice in man, but I affirm It is the woman's part.
Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell, But to torment you with my bitter tongue!
'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.
That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
Lawn as white as driven snow; Cyprus black as e'er was crow; Gloves as sweet as damask roses.
What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.
O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?