William Shakespeare Quotations | Page 4

But, good my brother, do not, as some ungracious pastors do. Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven whilst like a puffed and reckless libertine himself the primrose path of dalliance treads and wrecks not his own.

But that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from who bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than to fly to others that we know not of?

I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church by daylight

To fear the worst oft cures the worse.

Here is my journey's end, here is my butt; And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.

Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending

Happy is your Grace That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style

What! Wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?

We are gentlemen that neither in our hearts nor outward eyes envy the great nor shall the low despise.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me.

Have you no modesty, no maiden shame,No touch of bashfulness?

I am in blood Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er

I am giddy, expectation whirls me round.The imaginary relish is so sweetThat it enchants my sense.

If thou remember'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not loved.

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.

He is half of a blessed man. Left to be finished by such as she; and she a fair divided excellence, whose fullness of perfection lies in him.

He hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is perfect gallows.

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.

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;Exceedingly wise, fair-spoken and persuading;Lofty and sour to them that loved him not;But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.

God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man.

God, the best maker of all marriages,Combine your hearts in one.

Go girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural

There is no art To find the mind's construction in the face

Within the hollow crownThat rounds the mortal temples of a kingKeeps Death his court.

He makes a swan-like end, fading in music.

My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirred;And I myself see not the bottom of it.

Lack nothing: be merry. - from Henry IV

I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at.

Like to the time o' the year between the extremesOf hot and cold, he was not sad nor merry.

Let me have men about me that are fat, sleek-headed men and such as sleep a-nights. Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove.

Look down you gods, and on this couple drop a blessed crown.- from The Tempest

Look like the innocent flowerBut be the serpent under it.

That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything

Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets, and about our task

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; the thief doth fear each bush an officer.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud For grief is proud an't makes his owner stoop

I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the Countercheck Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct.

I were but little happy, if I could say how much

Man, proud man, dressed in a little brief authority, like an angry ape, play such fantastic tricks before high heaven as make the angels weep

I might not this believeWithout the sensible and true avouchOf mine own eyes.

It is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.

Like oneWho having into truth, by telling of it,Made such a sinner of his memory,To credit his own lie.

Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I ha lost my reputation, I ha lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial!

Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere.

O, what authority and show of truth can cunning sin cover itself withal!

Own more than thou showest, speak less than thou knowest.

Out of my lean and low abilityI'll lend you something.

Our wills and fates do so contrary runThat our devices still are overthrown;Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

Our bodies are our gardens... our wills are our gardeners.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,As I foretold you, were all spirits andAre melted into air, into thin air:And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolveAnd, like this insubstantial pageant faded,Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuffAs dreams are made on, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep.

I wish you all the joy you can wish.

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves; we are underlings.

It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds.

Thou wert best set - thy lower part where thy nose stands

Till I have no wife I have nothing.

Time hath a wallet at his back, wherein he puts. Alms for oblivion, a great-sized monster of ingratitudes.

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: perseverance, dear my lord, Ke

Time is the justice that examines all offenders.

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.

To be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune, but to write or read comes by nature

You have stayed me in a happy hour.

Unhand me, gentlemen,By heaven! I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.

You had measured how long a fool you were upon the ground.

They have a plentiful lack of wit.

Take you me for a sponge?

Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion!

Thou hast the most unsavoury similes.

This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.

Hang him, swaggering rascal!

I scorn you, scurvy companion.

Away, you mouldy rogue, away!

Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why then this parting was well made.

We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.

These earthly godfathers of Heaven's lights, that give a name to every fixed star, have no more profit of their shining nights than those that walk and know not what they are.

For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.

O how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes favors! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have, and when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.

One pain is lessened by another's anguish.

Pain pays the income of each precious thing.

Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god.

O! that a man might know The end of this day's business, ere it come; But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known.

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: today he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And - when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening - nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.

We are such stuff that dreams are made of.

Such thanks as fits a king's remembrance.

Give me a bowl of wine, In this I bury all unkindness.

O hell! to choose love with another's eye.

A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run.

Ha. "Against my will I am sent to bid you come into dinner." There's a double meaning in that. -Benedick (Much Ado)

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

I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so.

I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book!