William Shakespeare Quotations | Page 4

I am that merry wanderer of the night.

Love laughs at locksmiths.

Look, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.

Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, From earth to heaven.

Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?

Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school.

The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.

...lest too light winning make the prize light.

Trip over love, you can get up. Fall in love and you fall forever. Anyone can catch your eye, but it takes someone special to catch your heart. Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.

Cowards die many times; a brave man dies but once.

Silence is the perfect herald of joy.

I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent.

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear

What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.

Then happy I that love and am beloved, where I may not remove nor be removed.

Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.

Well, honor is the subject of my story.

When Caesar says, 'Do this', it is performed.

He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.

'Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Ha! Not she: nor doth she tempt: but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season.

His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.

The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks...

What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.

Lawn as white as driven snow; Cyprus black as e'er was crow; Gloves as sweet as damask roses.

Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

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.

Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.

What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours.

That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel...

O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.

Be advised; Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself: we may outrun, By violent swiftness, that which we run at, And lose by over-running. Know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor til run o'er, In seeming to augment it wastes it?

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.

She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam bad left him before he transgressed.

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain...

Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.

If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell, But to torment you with my bitter tongue!

Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, ...

Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now, ...

So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? ...

O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art,...

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.

Do not banish reason for inequality; but let your reason serve to make the truth appear where it seems hid, and hide the false seems true.

Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.

A very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience.

In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where.

Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.

A man I am cross'd with adversity.

If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.

Wisely, I say, I am a bachelor.

Those, that with haste will make a mighty fire, Begin it with weak straws.

So get the start of the majestic world And bear the palm alone.

Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.

Beware Of entrance to a quarrel.

And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, Contagious blastments are are most imminent.

To persevere In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness: 'tis unmanly grief.

Some falls the means are happier to rise.

The sweat of industry would dry and die, But for the end it works to.

For there's no motion That tends to vice in man, but I affirm It is the woman's part.

Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs?

Omittance is no quittance.

Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.

What our contempts do often hurl from us, We wish it ours again.

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious thing we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave.

We must every one be a man of his own fancy.

All is well ended, if the suit be won.

Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

Love's mind of judgment rarely hath a taste: Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.

They that touch pitch will be defiled.

God defend the right.

The spirit of a youth That means to be of note, begins betimes.

For youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears, Than settled age his sables, and his weeds Importing health and graveness.

I am declined Into the vale of years.

I would that I were low laid in my grave. I am not worth this coil that's made for me.

What is aught but as 'tis valued?

Would I were dead, if God's good will were so, For what is in this world but grief and woe?

Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affection, Figures pedantical--these summer flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation.

Good words are better than bad strokes.

Have you not heard it said full oft, A woman's nay doth stand for naught?

Two women placed together makes cold weather.

Fair ladies, masked, are roses in their bud; Dismasked, the damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.

O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more?

But indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offenses as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

Fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women, or more truly, woman its pretty self.

Ah me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is!

A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man.

Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.

I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.