William Shakespeare Quotes

In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.

Journeys end in lovers meeting.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form

Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school; And though she be but little, she is fierce.

I understand a fury in your words But not your words.

Those that much covet are with gain so fond, For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less; Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.

To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, gives in your weakness strength unto your foe.

Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.

Nothing routs us but the villainy of our fears.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.

You speak an infinite deal of nothing.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.

Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.

If thou art rich, thou art poor; for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.

But like of each thing that in season grows.

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

To sue to live, I find I seek to die; And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.

All the world is a stage and we are merely players.

Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented: sometimes am I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am: then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king; Then am I king'd again: and by and by Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing: but whate'er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased With being nothing.

But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.

Blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

The one I love is the son of the one I hate! -Juliet p. 75

Every subject's duty is the Kings, but every subject's soul is his own.

From this day forward until the end of the world...we in it shall be remembered...we band of brothers.

To do a great right do a little wrong.

The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, is often left unloved.

To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?

O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?

Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, but still remember what the Lord hath done.

Thou art a very ragged Wart.

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. 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! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

A light heart lives long.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love! Oh, that she knew she were!

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.

Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.

An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

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; for beauty is a witch Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.

Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things.

There's small choice in rotten apples.

This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators, save only he,Did that they did in envy of Caesar;He only, in a general honest thoughtAnd common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elementsSo mixd in him that Nature might stand upAnd say to all the world, This was a man!