William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 19

Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

We cannot all be masters.

Of all mad matches never was the likeBeing mad herself, she’s madly mated.

If I were to kiss you then go to hell, I would. So then I can brag with the devils I saw heaven without ever entering it.

Every man has his fault and honesty is his.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

A knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear.

He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.

I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting.

Sir, he hath not fed of the dainties that are bred in a book; He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts... (Act IV, Scene II)

The prince of darkness is a gentleman!

The royal throne of kings this scepter'd isle This earth of majesty this seat of Mars This other Eden demi-paradise This fortress built by nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war This happy breed of men this little world This precious stone set in the silver sea.

The people are the city.

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

Weaving spiders, come not here, Hence, you long legged spinners, hence! Beetles black, approach not here, worm nor snail, do no offense.

Adversity's sweet milk philosophy.

That he is mad 'tis true 'tis true 'tis pity And pity 'tis 'tis true.

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,By self-example mayst thou be denied.

Few love to hear the sins they love to act.

Such as we are made of such we be.

Lord Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words. Lord Polonius: What is the matter, my lord? Hamlet: Between who? Lord Polonius: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!Here will we sit and let the sounds of musicCreep in our ears: soft stillness and the nightBecome the touches of sweet harmony.Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heavenIs thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'stBut in his motion like an angel sings,Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;Such harmony is in immortal souls;But whilst this muddy vesture of decayDoth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."- Lorenzo, Acte V, Scene 1

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 counterfeitIs 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.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him; The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones

Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom,It helps not, it prevails not.

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

Diseases desperate grown,By desperate appliance are relieved,Or not at all.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,And then is heard no more. It is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.

This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.

What is the city but the people?

Your honour's players, hearing your amendment, Are come to play a pleasant comedy,For so your doctors hold it very meet,Seeing too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.Therefore they thought it good you hear a play,And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,Which bars a thousand harms and lenghtens life.

A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain, dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapors which environ it, makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which, delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit.

CLEOPATRA: My salad days,When I was green in judgment: cold in blood,To say as I said then! But, come, away;Get me ink and paper:He shall have every day a several greeting,Or I'll unpeople Egypt.

I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?

Yet do I fear thy nature It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.

And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.

He that dies pays all debts.

Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.

So may the outward shows be least themselves:The world is still deceived with ornament.In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,Obscures the show of evil? In religion,What damned error, but some sober browWill bless it and approve it with a text,Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?There is no vice so simple but assumesSome mark of virtue on his outward parts.

Were such things here as we do speak about?Or have we eaten on the insane rootThat takes the reason prisoner?

Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow...a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

He will give the devil his due.

Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hitWith Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit,And, in strong proff of chastity well armed,From Love's weak childish bow she lives uncharmed. She will not stay the siege of loving terms,Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes,Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.O, she is rich in beauty; only poorThat, when she dies, with dies her store.Act 1,Scene 1, lines 180-197