William Shakespeare Quotes on Mind (120 Quotes)


    In nature there is no blemish but the mind none can be called deformed but the unkind


    DUCHESS OF YORK God bless thee, and put meekness in thy mind, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty GLOUCESTER Aside Amen and make me die a good old man That is the butt-end of a mothers blessing I marvel why her grace did leave it out.

    Nay if you read this line, remember not
    The hand that writ it, for I love you so
    That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
    If thinking on me then should make you woe.

    I would I could not think it that thought is bounty's foe Being free itself, it thinks all others so.


    I have not that alacrity of spirit, Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have.



    Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you voutsafe
    me, look you, a few disputations with you, as partly touching or
    concerning the disciplines of the war, the Roman wars, in the way
    of argument, look you, and friendly communication; partly to
    satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, look you, of
    my mind, as touching the direction of the military discipline,
    that is the point.

    I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;
    For now hath time made me his numb'ring 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.




    To be, or not to be that is the question Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them To die to sleep No more and, by a sleep to say we end.

    Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast.

    To my grief, I am
    The heir of his reward;
    which I will add
    To you, the liver, heart, and brain, of Britain,
    By whom I grant she lives.

    'Tis good for men to love their present pains
    Upon example; so the spirit is eased;
    And when the mind is quick'ned, out of doubt
    The organs, though defunct and dead before,
    Break up their drowsy grave and newly move
    With casted slough and fresh legerity.

    Look what thy memory cannot contain,
    Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
    Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain,
    To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.


    If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
    Injurious distance should not stop my way;
    For then despite of space I would be brought,
    From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.

    My brain, more busy than the labouring spider,
    Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

    My brain I'll prove the female to my soul,
    My soul the father; and these two beget
    A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
    And these same thoughts people this little world,
    In humours like the people of this world,
    For no thought is contented.


    That which is now a horse, even with a thought
    The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,
    As water is in water.

    I was three or four
    times in the thought they were not fairies; and yet the
    guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers,
    drove the grossness of the foppery into a receiv'd belief,
    in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that they
    were fairies.

    Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
    That thou but leadest this fashion of thy malice
    To the last hour of act; and then, 'tis thought,
    Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange
    Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
    And where thou now exacts the penalty,
    Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,
    Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,
    But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
    Forgive a moiety of the principal,
    Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
    That have of late so huddled on his back-
    Enow to press a royal merchant down,
    And pluck commiseration of his state
    From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,
    From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd
    To offices of tender courtesy.

    Day, night, late, early,
    At home, abroad, alone, in company,
    Waking or sleeping, still my care hath been
    To have her match'd; and having now provided
    A gentleman of princely parentage,
    Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,
    Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts,
    Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man-
    And then to have a wretched puling fool,
    A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender,
    To answer 'I'll not wed, I cannot love;
    I am too young, I pray you pardon me'!


    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.


    Hearing you praised, I say "'Tis so, 'tis true,"
    And to the most of praise add something more;
    But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
    Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.

    To the orbed earth sometimes they do extend; Their view right on anon their gazes lend; To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd, The mind and sight distractedly commix'd.

    That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
    I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
    Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave,
    Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure!

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

    I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours
    Thou ran'st a tilt in honour of my love
    And stol'st away the ladies' hearts of France,
    I thought King Henry had resembled thee
    In courage, courtship, and proportion;
    But all his mind is bent to holiness,
    To number Ave-Maries on his beads;
    His champions are the prophets and apostles;
    His weapons, holy saws of sacred writ;
    His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves
    Are brazen images of canonized saints.


    In many's looks, the false heart's history
    Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,
    But heaven in thy creation did decree
    That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
    Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be,
    Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.


    A servingman, proud in heart and mind; that curl'd my hair,
    wore gloves in my cap; serv'd the lust of my mistress' heart and
    did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake
    words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven; one that
    slept in the contriving of lust, and wak'd to do it.


    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought,

    There's rosemary, that's for remembrance pray, love, remember and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

    If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean
    Shall outstrike thought; but thought will do't, I feel.

    Faster than spring-time show'rs comes thought on thought,
    And not a thought but thinks on dignity.


    I and my brother are not known; yourself
    So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown,
    Cannot be questioned.

    The brain may devise
    laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree;
    such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good
    counsel the cripple.

    He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
    She answers him as if she knew his mind;
    Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
    She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
    Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
    Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

    Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich . . .



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