William Shakespeare Quotes (3360 Quotes)


    So did he turn, and over Suffolk's neck
    He threw his wounded arm and kiss'd his lips;
    And so, espous'd to death, with blood he seal'd
    A testament of noble-ending love.

    Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.



    But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered.





    And then for her
    To win the Moor, were't to renounce his baptism,
    All seals and symbols of redeemed sin,
    His soul is so enfetter'd to her love,
    That she may make, unmake, do what she list,
    Even as her appetite shall play the god
    With his weak function.

    God bless thee; and put meekness in thy breast,
    Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!

    Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor
    Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons,
    Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus,
    Or any one of you, chop off your hand
    And send it to the King: he for the same
    Will send thee hither both thy sons alive,
    And that shall be the ransom for their fault.

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




    Man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As make the angels weep.


    In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state;
    Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.



    Tell him when that our princely father York
    Bless'd his three sons with his victorious arm
    And charg'd us from his soul to love each other,
    He little thought of this divided friendship.

    This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it, Like to a tenement or pelting farm England, bound in with the triumphant sea Whose rocky shore beats back the envi

    We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.


    Simple, plain Clarence, I do love thee so
    That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,
    If heaven will take the present at our hands.

    Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mull'd, deaf, sleepy,
    insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a
    destroyer of men.


    Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
    Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
    So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
    Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.

    The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.


    Take, O, take those lips away,
    That so sweetly were forsworn;
    And those eyes, the break of day,
    Lights that do mislead the morn;
    But my kisses bring again, bring again;
    Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, seal'd in vain.

    When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound.


    Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

    Being scarce made up,
    I mean to man, he had not apprehension
    Or roaring terrors; for defect of judgment
    Is oft the cease of fear.

    'Tis not to make me jealous
    To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,
    Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well;
    Where virtue is, these are more virtuous.

    And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
    When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.

    O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having....

    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.

    This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-Paradise.

    She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;
    For beauty, starv'd with her severity,
    Cuts beauty off from all posterity.




    Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broached his boiling bloody breast.




    By heaven, I love thee better than myself,
    For I come hither arm'd against myself.

    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, Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit; To his full height.


    Related Authors


    William Shakespeare - Oscar Wilde - George Bernard Shaw - Richard Steele - John Fletcher - Jean Racine - Henry Taylor - George S. Kaufman - George Colman - Anton Chekhov


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