William Shakespeare Quotes

But then I sigh, and with a piece of scripture,Tell them that God bids us do good for evil.And thus I clothe my naked villainyWith odd old ends stolen forth of holy writ,And seem I a saint, when most I play the Devil.
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo Deny thy father, and refuse thy name...
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
This above all to thine own self be true.
Oh, thou hast a damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me Hal, God forgive thee for it. Before I knew thee Hal, I knew nothing, and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked.
Be not afraid of greatness some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
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.
The fashion wears out more apparel than the man.
To business that we love, we rise betime and go to't with delight.
Our doubts are traitors,And make us lose the good we oft might winBy fearing to attempt.
To die, to sleep --To sleep, perchance to dream, ay there's the rub,For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause there's the respectThat makes calamity of so long life.
No legacy is so rich as honesty.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Cowards die many times before their deathsThe valiant never taste of death but once.
Angels and ministers of grace defend us.Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned,Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,That I will speak to thee.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the godsThey kill us for their sport.
Alas, poor Yorick I knew him Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy...
He was my friend, faithful, and just to meBut Brutus says, he was ambitious,And Brutus is an honorable man.He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill.Did this in Caesar seem ambitiousWhen the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept.Ambition should me made of sterner stuff,Yet Brutus says, he was ambitiousAnd Brutus is an honorable man.
O for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom staleHer infinite variety other women cloyThe appetites they feed, but she makes hungryWhere most she satisfies.
The quality of mercy is not strained It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed- It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother tomorrow.
This fellow's wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit.
The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
Self-loving is not so vile a sin, my liege, as self-neglecting.
Reputation is an idle and most false imposition oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.
Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts.
Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.
Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.
What's in a name That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly.
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 tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying Nothing.
The Possible's slow fuse is lit By the Imagination.
The earth has music for those who listen.
Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like a toad, though ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head.
Simply the thing I am shall make me live.
How far that little candle throws his beams So shines a good deed in a weary world.
Jesters do often prove prophets.
When holy and devout religious men Are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence So sweet is zealous contemplation.
Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls Who steals my purse steals trash 'tis something, nothing 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed.
To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.
This above all TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. And it must follow as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
Love all, trust a few. Do wrong to none.
I wish you all the joy you can wish.
What's done can't be undone.
Niether a borrower nor a lender be.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.
Cowards die many times before their deaths The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.
Life is a tale told by an idiot -- full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Lord, what fools these mortals be
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry But were we burdened with like weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.
Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.
Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.
And since you know you cannot see yourself, so well as by reflection, I, your glass, will modestly discover to yourself, that of yourself which you yet know not of.
Be great in act, as you have been in thought.
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.
And thus I clothe my naked villainy With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
I am not bound to please thee with my answers.
God bless thee and put meekness in thy mind, love, charity, obedience, and true duty
I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart but the saying is true 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound'.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice take each man's censure but reserve thy judgement.
His life was gentle and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up, And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN
He is winding the watch of his wit by and by it will strike.
Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, Till by broad spreading it disperses to naught.
How poor are they who have not patience What wound did ever heal but by degrees.
How use doth breed a habit in a man.
He who has injured thee was either stronger or weaker than thee. If weaker, spare him if stronger, spare thyself.
I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
I pray thee cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless as water in a sieve.
I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word.
I dote on his very absence.
I hate ingratitude more in a man than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, or any taint of vice whose strong corruption inhabits our frail blood.
In a false quarrel there is no true valour.
I must be cruel, only to be kind Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
I wish you well and so I take my leave, I Pray you know me when we meet again.
It is not enough to help the feeble up, but to support him after.
Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.
Mine honour is my life both grow in one take honour from me and my life is done.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
Our bodies are our gardens to which our wills are gardeners.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.
Lady you berefit me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins, And there is such confusion in my powers.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just an charitable war.
The sands are number'd that make up my life.
Pity is the virture of the law, and none but tyrants use it cruelly.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him
Strong reasons make strong actions.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.
Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear.
See first that the design is wise and just that ascertained, pursue it resolutely do not for one repulse forego the purpose that you resolved to effect.
Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause.
Thou art all the comfort, The Gods will diet me with.
Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.
We are advertis'd by our loving friends.
Their understanding Begins to swell and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores That now lie foul and muddy.
We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.
The soul of this man is in his clothes.
My salad days, When I was green in judgment.
For aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth.
When we are born, we cry, that we are come To this great stage of fools.
When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.
You cram these words into mine ears against the stomach of my sense.
While thou livest keep a good tongue in thy head.
Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
Small to greater matters must give way.
True is it that we have seen better days.
Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
Since Cleopatra died, I have liv'd in such dishonour that the gods Detest my baseness.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety.
I have Immortal longings in me.
I met a fool i' the forest, A motley fool.
The little foolery that wise men have makes a great show.
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
No, 'tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world.
He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
But to my mind, though I am native here And to the manner born, it is a custom More honoured in the breach than the observance.
The game is up.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Beware Of entrance to a quarrel but being in, Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy rich, not gaudy For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
I have not slept one wink.
Frailty, thy name is woman
What a piece of work is a man how noble in reason how infinite in faculty in form and moving how express and admirable in action how like an angel in apprehension how like a god
Brevity is the soul of wit.
Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.
The play's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
The devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape.
Leave her to heaven And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, To prick and sting her.
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petard...
Hamlet Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel Polonius By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet Or like a whale Polonius Very like a whale.
To be, or not to be that is the question Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them To die to sleep No more and by a sleep to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep To sleep perchance to dream ay, there's the rub For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of Thus conscience does make cowards of us all And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't, A brother's murder.
I have heard of your paintings too, well enough God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.
O, woe is me, To have seen what I have seen, see what I see
Et tu, Brute
A hit, a very palpable hit.
But, for my own part, it was Greek to me.
Alas, poor Yorick I knew him, Horatio a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now your gambols, your songs your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar Not one now, to mock your own grinning Quite chap-fallen Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.
Let me have men about me that are fat, Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look He thinks too much such men are dangerous.
Cry Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.
Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest
Beware the ides of March.
The rest is silence.
The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.
For Brutus is an honourable man So are they all, all honourable men.
How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In states unborn and accents yet unknown
If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, Or close the wall up with our English dead In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things.
There is a tide in the affairs of men Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
He hath eaten me out of house and home.
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.
Nothing will come of nothing.
Pray you now, forget and forgive.
Although the last, not least.
The worst is not So long as we can say, This is the worst.
'T is better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perked up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
Oh, that way madness lies let me shun that.
And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hew down and fell the hardest-timbered oak.
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child
This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.
He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.
They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us.
A horse a horse my kingdom for a horse
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.
A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred 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, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,-- This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told.
Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruised arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,-- Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun.
A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain.
Lay on, Macduff, And damn'd be him that first cries, Hold, enough
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle 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 tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
Out, damned spot out, I say
Double, double toil and trouble Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
The attempt and not the deed Confounds us.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes. Open, locks, Whoever knocks
Yet do I fear thy nature It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues Let every eye negotiate for itself And trust no agent.
What's mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.
The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.
They say, best men are moulded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad.
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy I were but little happy, if I could say how much.
I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old man and no honester than I.
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
Truth is truth To the end of reckoning.
He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat.
He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stolen, Let him not know 't, and he's not robb'd at all.
I understand a fury in your words, But not the words.
I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at.
O, now, for ever Farewell the tranquil mind farewell content Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars That make ambition virtue O, farewell Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit, Farewell Othello's occupation's gone
What a deformed thief this fashion is.
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on.
Speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts The worst of words.
I am not merry but I do beguile The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.
Excellent wretch Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
But, soft what light through yonder window breaks It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
'Tis neither here nor there.
Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
When he is best, he is a little worse than a man and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast.
My meaning in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me that he is sufficient.
Good night, good night parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
O Romeo, Romeo wherefore art thou Romeo
A plague o' both your houses
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