William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 2

Make the doors upon a woman's wit,and it will out at the casement;shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole;stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweetThough to itself it only live and die

Mine honor is my life; both grow in one.Take honor from me, and my life is done.

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

Every one can master a grief but he that has it.

She's beautiful and therefore to be woo'd: She is a woman therefore to be won.

Sleep that knits up the ravell'd slave of care The death of each day's life sore labour's bath Balm of hurt minds great nature's second course Chief nourisher in life's feast.

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.

That such a slave as this should wear a sword,Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,Like rats, oft bite the holy cords atwainWhich are too intrinse t' unloose; smooth every passionThat in the natures of their lords rebel,Being oil to the fire, snow to the colder moods,Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaksWith every gale and vary of their mastersKnowing naught, like dogs, but following.

Give me that man That is not passion's slave.

No legacy is so rich as honesty.

And will 'a not come again? And will 'a not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death bed: He will never come again.

He that dies pays all debts.

O! Learn to read what silent love hath writ:to hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

Friar Laurence:O, mickle is the powerful grace that liesIn herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities: For nought to vile that on the earth doth live, But to the earth some special good doth give; nor aught so good, but, strain'd from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime's by action dignified.

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!

Alack, when once our grace we have forgot,Nothing goes right; we would and we would not.

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.

I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.

As full of spirit as the month of May.

I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.

Ambition should be made from sterner stuff.

Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.

It is excellent / To have a giant's strenght / But it is tyrannous / To use it like a giant(Isabella)

Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out at every joint and motive of her body.

Say a day without the ever.

When that the poor have cried Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious And Brutus is an honourable man.

How art thou out of breath when thou hast breathTo say to me that thou art out of breath?

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,Men were deceivers ever,-One foot in sea and one on shore,To one thing constant never.

A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing.

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

To be or not to be that is the question.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

ROMEO :'Tis torture and not mercy. Heaven is here,Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dogAnd little mouse, every unworthy thing,Live here in heaven and may look on her,But Romeo may not. More validity,More honorable state, more courtship livesIn carrion flies than Romeo. They may seizeOn the white wonder of dear Juliet’s handAnd steal immortal blessing from her lips,Who even in pure and vestal modesty,Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.But Romeo may not. He is banishèd.Flies may do this, but I from this must fly.They are free men, but I am banishèd.And sayst thou yet that exile is not death?Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife,No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean,But “banishèd” to kill me?—“Banishèd”!O Friar, the damnèd use that word in hell.Howling attends it. How hast thou the heart,Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,A sin-absolver, and my friend professed,To mangle me with that word “banishèd”?

Uncertain way of gain. But I am inSo far in blood that sin will pluck on sin.Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won

... and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days...

O, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast;Who plead for love, and look for recompense,More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

Reputation is an idle and most false imposition oft got without merit and lost without deserving.

Mother, I will look to like. If looking liking moves.

... reason andlove keep little company together now-a-days...

An old man is twice a child.

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

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is.*She’s a stubborn little brat.*

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause

But thoughts the slave of life, and life, Time’s fool,And Time, that takes survey of all the world,Must have a stop.

Get you gone, you dwarf,You minimus of hindering knotgrass made,You bead, you acorn!

My man's as true as steel.

POLONIUS : My Lord, I will use them according to their desert.HAMLET : God's bodykins man, better. Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity. The less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty.

Good madonna, give me leave toprove you a fool.

I wish you all the joy that you can wish.

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.

I must be cruel only to be kind.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;Make dust our paper and with rainy eyesWrite sorrow on the bosom of the earth,Let's choose executors and talk of wills

Ay every inch a king.

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.

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

...Who could refrain,tThat had a heart to love, and in that hearttCourage to make love known?

What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord?Or to the dreadful summit of the cliffThat beetles o'er his base into the sea,And there assume some other horrible formWhich might deprive your sovereignty of reasonAnd draw you into madness? Think of it.[The very place puts toys of desperation,Without more motive, into every brainThat looks so many fathoms to the seaAnd hears it roar beneath.]

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