William Shakespeare Quotes

Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.

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.

How much an ill word may empoison liking!

Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.

Love for thy love , and hand for hand I give.

What made me love thee? let that persuade thee, there's something extraordinary in thee

How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!

An envious fever of pale and bloodless emulation.

This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.

For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!

There is Throats to be cut, and Works to be done.

Suit the action to the word, the word to the action.

All his successors gone before him have done 't; and all his ancestors that come after him may.

I am sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.

Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.

On pain of death, no person be so bold.

I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.

He that commends me to mine own content Commends me to the thing I cannot get. I to the world am like a drop of water That in the ocean seeks another drop, Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself: So I, to find a mother and a brother, In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.

Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.

For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.

For 'tis the sport to have the engineerHoist with his own petard.

Therefore it is most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm (his conscience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself.

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.

A grandma's name is little less in love than is the doting title of a mother.

Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.

O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!

Memory, the warder of the brain.

Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition

Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.

But whate'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If you have ever looked on better days, If ever been where bells knoll'd to church, If ever sat at any good man's feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be. . . .

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his numbering clock: My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, Whereto my finger, like a dial's point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous goans, which strike upon my heart, Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans Show minutes, times, and hours.

As chaste as unsunned snow.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!

Cursed be he that moves my bones.

Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our teeples, drowned the cocks! You sulphurour and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man!

Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses.

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.

I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.

He is the half part 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.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.

Frame your mind to mirth and merriment which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.