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.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.
My brother's love, the devil, and my rage.
He was perfumed like a milliner,
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took't away again;
Who therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff; and still he smil'd and talk'd;
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
My charity is outrage, life my shame;
And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
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.
Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn
To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire.
And in this state she 'gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on cursies straight;
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
The youngest son of Priam, a true knight;
Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word;
Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue;
Not soon provok'd, nor being provok'd soon calm'd;
His heart and hand both open and both free;
For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows,
Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty,
Nor dignifies an impair thought with breath;
Manly as Hector, but more dangerous;
For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes
To tender objects, but he in heat of action
Is more vindicative than jealous love.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
I am young, but something
You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb
To appease an angry god.
God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,
His deputy anointed in His sight,
Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,
Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift
An angry arm against His minister.
... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.
O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
Anger is like
A full hot horse, who being allow'd his way,
Self-mettle tires him.
Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you be to yourself As you would to your friend.
He's fall'n in love with your foulness, and she'll fall
in love with my anger.
Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, But give it way a while and let it waste.
My rage is gone,
And I am struck with sorrow.
Among this princely heap, if any here,
By false intelligence or wrong surmise,
Hold me a foe-
If I unwittingly, or in my rage,
Have aught committed that is hardly borne
To any in this presence, I desire
To reconcile me to his friendly peace:
'Tis death to me to be at enmity;
I hate it, and desire all good men's love.
I will not be your friend, nor enemy;
My daughter will I question how she loves you,
And as I find her, so am I affected;
Till then, farewell, sir; she must needs go in;
Her father will be angry.
Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too,
Unless they seek for hatred at my hands;
Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe,
And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath.
For your part,
To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony;
Our arms in strength of malice, and our hearts
Of brothers' temper, do receive you in
With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence.
The commons, like an angry hive of bees
That want their leader, scatter up and down
And care not who they sting in his revenge.
How love to me and to her son
Hath made her break out into terms of rage!
If thou canst love a
fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sunburning,
that never looks in his glass for love of anything he sees there,
let thine eye be thy cook.
For when we rage, advice is often seen By blunting us to make our wits more keen.
Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.
Forgive the comment that my passion made
Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind,
And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Presented thee more hideous than thou art.
More William Shakespeare Quotations (Based on Topics)
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