William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 4

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyesWould, with themselves, shut up my thoughts...

I am dying Egypt dying.

When I was at home I was in a better place but travellers must be content.

Thou, my slave,As thou report'st thyself, was then her servant,And for thou wast a spirit too delicateTo act her earthy and abhorred commands,Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,By help of her more potent ministersAnd in her most unmitigable rage,Into a cloven pine, within which riftImprisoned thou didst painfully remainA dozen years; within which space she diedAnd left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groansAs fast as mill wheels strike.

Cowards die many times before their deaths the valiant never taste of death but once.

I can call spirits from the vasty deep."Why so can I, or so can any man. But will they come when you do call for them?

He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear:And you all know, securityIs mortals' chiefest enemy.

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

When he shall die,Take him and cut him out in little stars,And he will make the face of heaven so fineThat all the world will be in love with nightAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.

Refrain to-night;And that shall lend a kind of easinessTo the next abstinence, the next more easy;For use almost can change the stamp of nature,And either master the devil or throw him outWith wondrous potency.

They say an old man is twice a child

Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear.

To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil!Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit!I dare damnation

O judgment! thou are fled to brutish beasts And men have lost their reason!

In my mind's eye

Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault dear Brutus is not in our stars But in ourselves that we are underlings.

The ripest fruit first falls.

Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.

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

O, that he were here to write me down an ass! But, masters, remember, that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.

Much rain wears the marble.

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

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!This was the most unkindest cut of all

More in sorrow than in anger.

And worse I may be yet: the worst is notSo long as we can say 'This is the worst.

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.

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

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

Love is not love which alters when it alterations finds. Sonnet 116

How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, Reason none, If what parts, can so remain.

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none