William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 9

In my mind's eye

When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit! To-who!—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doe blow,And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit! To-who!—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Ay,sir;to be honest,as this world goes,is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

The jury passing on the prisoner's life May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two Guiltier than him they try.

I could a tale unfold whose lightest wordWould harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,Thy knotted and combined locks to part,And each particular hair to stand on endLike quills upon the fretful porpentine.But this eternal blazon must not beTo ears of flesh and blood.List, list, O list!

Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind, And makes it fearful and degenerate; Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.

Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.

Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark. (Act 5, Scene 2)

thus with a kiss I die

Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.

They are the books, the arts, the academes,That show, contain and nourish all the world.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

Had he not resembled My father as he slept I had done't!" Macbeth

Look on beauty,And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight;Which therein works a miracle in nature,Making them lightest that wear most of it:So are those crisped snaky golden locksWhich make such wanton gambols with the wind,Upon supposed fairness, often knownTo be the dowry of a second head,The skull that bred them in the sepulchre.Thus ornament is but the guiled shoreTo a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarfVeiling an Indian beauty; in a word,The seeming truth which cunning times put onTo entrap the wisest.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.

Cressida: My lord, will you be true?Troilus: Who, I? Alas, it is my vice, my fault:Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion,I with great truth catch mere simplicity;Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns,With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare.Fear not my truth: the moral of my witIs "plain and true"; there's all the reach of it.

He hath always but slightly, known himself...King Lear

If all the year were playing holidays To sport would be as tedious as to work.

I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.

God has given you one face and you make yourselves another.

Rumour is a pipeBlown by surmises, jealousies, conjecturesAnd of so easy and so plain a stopThat the blunt monster with uncounted heads,The still-discordant wavering multitude,Can play upon it.

The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

More grief to hide than hate to utter love. Polonius, Hamlet.

Lord what fools these mortals be!

Olivia: What's a drunken man like, fool?Feste: Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

Give every man thine ear but few thy voice Take each man's censure but reserve thy judgment.

He is well paid that is well satisfied.

Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.

Mother, you have my father much offended.

A light heart lives long.

More of your conversation would infect my brain.

Verily, I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.

The truth you speak doth lack some gentlenessAnd time to speak it in. You rub the soreWhen you should bring the plaster.

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together Youth is full of pleasure age is full of care Youth like summer morn age like winter weather Youth like summer brave age like winter bare. Youth is full sport age's breath is short Youth is nimble age is lame Youth is hot and bold age is weak and cold Youth is wild age is tame. Age I do abhor thee youth I do adore thee.

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

They do not love, that do not show their love.

I have no spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itselfAnd falls on the other.

All the world's a stage,And all the men and women merely players;They have their exits and their entrances,And one man in his time plays many parts,His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school. And then the lover,Sighing like furnace, with a woeful balladMade to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,In fair round belly with good capon lined,With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,Full of wise saws and modern instances;And so he plays his part. The sixth age shiftsInto the lean and slippered pantaloon,With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,Turning again toward childish treble, pipesAnd whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,That ends this strange eventful history,Is second childishness and mere oblivion,Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Be as thou wast wont to be.See as thou wast wont to see.

His life was gentle and the elements So mixed in him that nature might stand up

I wish you all the joy that you can wish.

How use doth breed a habit in a man!

And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover,To entertain these fair well-spoken days, —I am determined to prove a villain,And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.

MARCUS ANDRONICUS: Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?TITUS ANDRONICUS: Ha, ha, ha!MARCUS ANDRONICUS: Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.TITUS ANDRONICUS: Why, I have not another tear to shed:

Out out brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.

So wise so young, they say, do never live long.

A politician . . . one that would circumvent God.

His life was gentle; and the elementsSo mixed in him, that Nature might stand upAnd say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!

We will meet; and there we may rehearse mostobscenely and courageously.Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream. Spoken by Bottom, Act I Sc. 2

But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world now lies he there And none so poor to do him reverence.

O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace.

Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him,And all their ministers attend on him.

Deal mildly with his youth; for young hot colts, being rag's, do rage the more.

Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite,That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.'Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy:Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:It shall be waited on with jealousy,Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end,Ne'er settled equally, but high or low,That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.'It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud,Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while;The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'dWith sweets that shall the truest sight beguile:The strongest body shall it make most weak,Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.'It shall be sparing and too full of riot,Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild,Make the young old, the old become a child.'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;It shall not fear where it should most mistrust;It shall be merciful and too severe,And most deceiving when it seems most just;Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward,Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.'It shall be cause of war and dire events,And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;Subject and servile to all discontents,As dry combustious matter is to fire:Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come.