Quotes by William Shakespeare – Part 1

My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite. 

I had rather be a toad, and live upon the vapor of a dungeon than keep a corner in the thing I love for others uses. 

Too much to know is to know naught but fame. 

Crowns have their compass-length of days their date- Triumphs their tomb-felicity, her fate- Of nought but earth can earth make us partaker, But knowledge makes a king most like his Maker. 

All difficulties are easy when they are known. 

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together. 

O excellent! I love long life better than figs. 

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe. And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale. 

Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin’s fee. 

And a man’s life’s no more than to say “One.” 

O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long, If life did ride upon a dial’s point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour. 

The sands are number’d that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end. 

I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. 

This day I breathed first: time is come round, And where I did begin there shall I end; My life is run his compass. 

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. 

That but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We’ld jump the life to come. 

Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv’d a blessed time; for, from this instant, There’s nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys; renown, and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. 

So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend, or be rid on’t. 

Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep. 

Her father lov’d me; oft invited me; Still question’d me the story of my life, From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass’d. 

On a day – alack the day! – Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air 

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov’d, I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d. 

My heart is ever at your service. 

April … hath put a spirit of youth in everything. 

The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven’s lieutenants. 

Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod. 

A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience! 

Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. 

I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am arm’d To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, The very tyranny and rage of his. 

Had it pleas’d heaven To try me with affliction * * * I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience. 

Like Patience gazing on kings’ graves, and smiling Extremity out of act. 

He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding. 

Who can be patient in extremes? 

That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. 

A politician… one that would circumvent God. 

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done. 

It is not night when I do see your face. 

For thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts. 

What my tongue dares not that my heart shall say 

When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies. 

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself. 

With caution judge of probability. Things deemed unlikely, e’en impossible, experience oft hath proved to be true. 

I wish you all the joy that you can wish. 

But like of each thing that in season grows. 

There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. 

At Christmas, I no more desire a rose. 

The coward dies a thousand deaths, the valiant, only once! 

He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May. 

She is your treasure, she must have a husband; I must dance bare-foot on her wedding day, And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell. 

With this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature. for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature. 

Present fears are less than horrible imaginings. 

I am a foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend. 

In right and service to their noble country. 

Who is here so vile that will not love his country? 

I thank you all and here dismiss you all, and to the love and favor of my country commit myself, my person, and the cause. 

Having my freedom, boast of nothing else. 

Gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain’d my freedom. 

Let’s all cry peace, freedom, and liberty! 

This liberty is all that I request. 

Leave us to our free election. 

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends. 

They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing. 

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

I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety. 

We cannot all be masters. 

The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease. 

Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy. 

In law, what plea so tainted and corrupts, but being seasoned with a gracious voice obscures the show of evil. 

Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all. 

So distribution should undo excess, and each man have enough. 

Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast. 

Keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key. 

A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities. 

The band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity. 

To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown; But where there is true friendship, there needs none. 

I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends. 

To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods. 

Thy friendship makes us fresh. 

Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish her election, Sh’ath sealed thee for herself. 

If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends; for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend? 

There is flattery in friendship. 

That which I would discover The law of friendship bids me to conceal. 

Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I ha’ lost my reputation, I ha’ lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial! 

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

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life. 

Celebrity is never more admired than by the negligent. 

Nothing can seem foul to those who win. 

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

Well-apparel’d April on the heel Of limping Winter treads. 

Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty. 

There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it. 

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May. 

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent. 

Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast. 

People usually are the happiest at home. 

In delay there lies no plenty. 

Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary. 

Grief makes one hour ten. 

Were kisses all the joys in bed, One woman would another wed. 

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that’s a feeling disputation. 

He took the bride about the neck and kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack that at the parting all the church did echo. 

O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. 

There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old. 

A man can die but once. 

Go, bid the soldiers shoot. 

I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways. 

Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him. 

Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. 

To whom God will, there be the victory. 

I’ll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked. 

Fight to the last gasp. 

Come the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock them. 

We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man. 

A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. 

Though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft let by the nose with gold. 

Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; he tires betimes that spurs too fast. 

A grandma’s name is little less in love than is the doting title of a mother. 

O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night. 

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my love. 

And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d 

We cannot fight for love, as men may do; we shou’d be woo’d, and were not made to woo 

So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne’er alter, till they sweet life end 

Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere 

Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you 

Love, which teacheth me that thou and I am one 

If thou remeber’st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov’d 

I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say – I love you 

I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty 

By Heaven, my soul is purg’d from grudging hate; And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love 

What? do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes 

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror 

I have pursued her, as love hath pursued me 

What made me love thee? let that persuade thee, there’s something extraordinary in thee 

I love thee; none but thee, and thou deservest it 

Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will! 

This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet 

With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out 

By Heaven, I love thee better than myself 

Is it possible that love should of a sudden take such a hold? 

I love thee, and it is my love that speaks 

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your’s for ever! 

Thou ever young, fresh, lov’d, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow 

And, if you love me, as I think you do, let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do 

O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou! 

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment’s mirth 

Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour’s pawn 

I have lov’d her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful 

For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy 

My love is thaw’d; Which, like a waxen image ‘gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was 

Things in motion sooner catch the eye than what not stirs. 

The quality of mercy is not strained 

Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare, To digg the dust encloased heare! Blest be the man that spares thes stones, And curst be he that moves my bones. 

I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears. 

For grief is crowned with consolation. 

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute. 

Your lips are like wine, and I want to get drunk. 

Good company, good wine, good welcome, can make good people. 

The wine-cup is the little silver well, Where truth, if truth there be, doth dwell. 

What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory. 

Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us? 

It is silliness to live when to live is torment. 

It is the mind that makes the body rich; and as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honor peereth in the meanest habit. 

T’is true: there’s magic in the web of it… 

Few love to hear the sins they love to act. 

‘Tis the soldier’s life to have their balmy slumbers waked with strife. 

Perseverance… keeps honor bright: to have done, is to hang quite out of fashion, like a rusty nail in monumental mockery. 

Every man has business and desire, Such as it is. 

Dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. And I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow. 

Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste. 

Now ’tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they’ll o’ergrow the garden. 

Old Time the clock-setter. 

The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time. 

Every good servant does not all commands. 

Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste. 

A smile cures the wounding of a frown. 

Man, proud man, drest in a little brief authority, most ignorant of what he’s most assur d, glassy essence, like an angry ape, plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, as make the angels weep. 

… 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. 

From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing. 

When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy, over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year; For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. 

It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o’er the green corn-field did pass, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring. 

O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? 

Thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast. 

Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud; And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. 

Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile. 

What freezings I have felt, what dark days seen, What old December’s bareness everywhere! 

Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way. 

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. 

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which. 

As love is full of unbefitting strains, All wanton as a child, skipping and vain, Form’d by the eye and therefore, like the eye, Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms, Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll To every varied object in his glance 

So loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven, Visit her face’ too roughly. 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

Eternity was in our lips and eyes, Bliss in our brows’ bent; none our parts so poor But was a race of heaven. 

Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough. 

Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all wrong. 

But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes, Lives not alone immured in the brain; But, with the motion of all elements, Courses as swift as thought in every power, And gives to every power a double power, Above their functions and their offices. 

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. 

I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause But rather reason thus with reason fetter, Love sought is good, but given unsought better. 

Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper’d with Love’s sighs; 

The prize of all too precious you. 

For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 

A lean cheek, – a blue eye, and sunken, – an unquestionable spirit, – a beard neglected:- Then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unhanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation. 

Love is a spirit all compact of fire. 

He says, he loves my daughter; I think so too; for never gaz’d the moon Upon the water, as he’ll stand and read, As ’twere, my daughter’s eyes: and, to be plain, I think, there is not half a kiss to choose, Who loves another best. 

There’s beggary in love that can be reckoned 

Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by 

What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by? 

Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight 

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love 

Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties 

Love hath made thee a tame snake 

Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away 

I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster 

In thy youth wast as true a lover, As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow 

You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame 

She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known 

Men’s vows are women’s traitors 

Love will not be spurred to what it loathes 

They are in the very wrath of love, and they will go together. Clubs cannot part them 

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit! 

Is this the generation of love? Hot blood, hot thoughts and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers? 

Lovers ever run before the clock 

I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip 

I’ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap 

You have witchcraft in your lips 

I humbly do beseech of your pardon, For too much loving you 

Kiss me, Kate, we shall be married o’Sunday 

He is not great who is not greatly good. 

As good luck would have it. 

Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate… When in eternal lines to time thou growst So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die. 

Love denied blights the soul we owe to God. 

My story starts at sea, a perilous voyage to an unknown land. A shipwreck. The wild waters roar and heave. The brave vessel is dashed all to pieces. And all the helpless souls within her drowned. All save one. A lady. Whose soul is greater than the ocean, and her spirit stronger than the sea’s embrace. Not for her a watery end, but a new life beginning on a stranger shore. It will be a love story. For she will be my heroine for all time. And her name will be Viola. 

I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well 

Love goes toward love. 

Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. 

So they loved as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distinct, divisions none… 

Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, But Lust’s effect is tempest after sun; Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done; Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies. 

I’ll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew. 

This is the very ecstasy of love. 

For you and I are past our dancing days. 

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty. 

As chaste as unsunned snow. 

All lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one. 

We will draw the curtain and show you the picture. 

You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant; But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you. 

Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! 

Not stepping over the bounds of modesty. 

My love’s more richer than my tongue. 

These words are razors to my wounded heart. 

Can one desire too much of a good thing? 

Who wooed in haste, and means to wed at leisure. 

I can express no kinder sign of love, than this kind kiss. 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But bad mortality o’ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 

I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment. 

O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou has no name to be known by, let us call thee devil….O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! 

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world. 

Who are the violets now That strew the lap of the new-come spring? 

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk. 

Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid’s archery, Sink in apple of his eye. 

But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness. 

He wears the rose Of youth upon him. 

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose. 

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. For whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed. 

And I will make it felony to drink small beer. 

Blessings of your heart, you brew good ale. 

Would I were in an alehouse in London. 

Good old grandsire … we shall be joyful of thy company. 

My crown is in my heart, not on my head. 

I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise. 

As many arrows, loosed several ways, come to one mark…so many a thousand actions, once afoot, end in one purpose. 

Th abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power. 

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness. 

Send danger from the east unto the west, so honor cross it from the north to south. 

My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer’s hand. 

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn. 

The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes. 

There are occasions and causes, why and wherefore in all things. 

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned. 

Tears water our growth. 

My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. 

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief? 

Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep’st so sound. 

You lack the season of all natures, sleep. 

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper’d head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign: 

O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody? 

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body’s work’s expir’d: For then my thoughts-from far where I abide- Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see: Save that my soul’s imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself no quiet find. 

O world, how apt the poor are to be proud! 

When rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will 

You take my life when you do take the means whereby I live 

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary 

A good old man, sir. He will be talking. As they say, when the age is in, the wit is out. 

I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously; for when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests; but now I’ll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me. 

Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee! 

This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away; go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. 

As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford’s approach, and in her invention, and Ford’s wife’s distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket. 

Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. 

Farewell, my sister, fare thee well. The elements be kind to thee, and make Thy spirits all of comfort: fare thee well. 

Within the book and volume of thy brain… 

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain 

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy. 

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

But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day. 

Be just, and fear not. 

Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil. 

To fear the worst oft cures the worst. 

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade the eyes of men without an orator. 

Every man has his fault, and honesty is his. 

There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history, fully unfold. 

If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. 

My chastity’s the jewel of our house, bequeathed down from many ancestors. 

A nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them. 

The soul of this man is his clothes. 

The apparel oft proclaims the man. 

Friendly counsel cuts off many foes. 

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent. 

Better a little chiding than a great deal of heartbreak. 

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance. 

Good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well used. 

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quenched them hath given me fire. 

God, the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts into one. 

He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause. 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies. 

They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame. 

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh! 

How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping? 

The jury passing on the prisoner’s life may in the sworn twelve have a thief or two guiltier than him they try. 

I am sure care’s an enemy to life. 

Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water. 

Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, where manners ne’er were preached. 

So, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore, I scant this breathing courtesy. 

He makes a July’s day short as December. 

She’s good, being gone. 

O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do. 

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

No profit grows where no pleasure is taken. 

The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony. 

Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith. 

Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, meeting the check of such another day. 

Women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour. 

It is not vain glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber. 

There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts. 

Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn’d, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee. 

Angels and ministers of grace defend us. 

God defend me from that Welsh fairy, Lest he transform me to a piece of cheese! 

But most it is presumption in us when the help of heaven we count the act of men. 

An angel; or, if not, An earthly paragon. 

He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. 

O King, be loyal to the royal within you. 

To you your father should be as a god; One that composed your beauties, yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax, By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure or disfigure it. 

Absence doth sharpen love, presence strengthens it; the one brings fuel, the other blows it till it burns clear. 

Ambition, the soldier’s virtue. 

Give obedience where ’tis truly owed. 

God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e’er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish. 

Simply the thing that I am shall make me live. 

Pray you now, forget and forgive. 

I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream. 

A harmless necessary cat. 

What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. 

Be! That’s a statement. 

‘Tis brief, my lord…as woman’s love. 

My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except. 

All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test; here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift. 

My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow’s rage! 

Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love’s settled passions in my heart; And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love. 

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

Fortune reigns in gifts of the world. 

Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love’s full sacrifice, He offers in another’s enterprise; But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar’s praise may be, Yet hold I off. 

She told her, while she kept it, ‘Twould make her amiable and subdue my father Entirely to her love, but if she lost it Or made a gift of it, my father’s eye Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt After new fancies. 

I am not in the giving vein today. 

Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. 

Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce! 

Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity, made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, between these swelling wrong-incensed peers. 

Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave. 

Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally, I would we could do so for her benefits are mightily misplaced and the bountiful blind girl doth most mistake in her gifts to women. ‘Tis true for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly. Nay, now thou goest from Fortunes office to Natures. Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of Nature. 

The readiness is all. 

What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide. 

And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed. 

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

Assume a virtue if you have it not. 

Most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath. 

Talkers are no good doers. 

Who seeks, and will not take when once ’tis offered, shall never find it more. 

We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures. 

Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut. 

The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger. 

We do pray for mercy, and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy. 

Jesters do oft prove prophets. 

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing. 

Nimble thought can jump both sea and land. 

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun, and with him rise weeping. 

After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further. 

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure. 

The will is deaf and hears no heedful friends. 

Honesty is the best policy. If I lose mine honor, I lose myself. 

His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. 

Art made tongue-tied by authority. 

Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief. 

An honest tale speeds best being plainly told. 

Good name in man and woman is the immediate jewel of their souls. 

Famous Quotes on: Honesty, Wisdom, Thomas Jefferson Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in a foul oyster. 

To be direct and honest is not safe. 

How wayward is this foolish love that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod. 

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, For I am armed so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind 

The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment. 

But thy eternal summer shall not fade. 

For by his face straight shall you know his heart. 

Like a barber’s chair that fits all buttocks. 

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects are tried. 

Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness! 

Welcome ever smiles, and farewell goes out sighing. 

A scar nobly got is a good livery of honor. 

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! 

His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles; his love sincere, his thoughts immaculate; his tears pure messengers sent from his heart; his heart as far from fraud, as heaven from earth 

Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave. 

But love is blind and lovers cannot see 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man’s ingratitude. 

He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece. 

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth. 

Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal. 

She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 

There’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year. 

Weariness can snore upon the flint when resting sloth finds the down pillow hard. 

The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense. 

And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears. 

When our actions do not, our fears make us traitors. 

I am a kind of burr; I shall stick. 

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or season’s quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell … Or say with princes if it shall go well … 

Plutus himself, That knows the tinct and multiplying med’cine, Hath not in nature’s mystery more science Than I have in this ring. 

As true as steel, as plantage to the moon, As sun to day, at turtle to her mate, As iron to adamant, as earth to centre. 

For to define true madness, What is’t but to be nothing else but mad? 

And nature must obey necessity. 

In nature’s infinite book of secrecy A little I can read. 

There is a history in all men’s lives. 

We were not born to sue, but to command. 

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. 

What a deformed thief this fashion is. 

Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature’s fragile vessel doth sustain In life’s uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them. 

And do as adversaries do in law, strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. 

They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps. 

Drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things . . . nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. 

O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer. 

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame. 

Discuss unto me: art thou officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular? 

Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I’ll obey. 

In thee thy mother dies, our household’s name, My death’s revenge, thy youth, and England’s fame. 

I say, without characters, fame lives long. 

You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised: 

You, and your lady, Take from my heart all thankfulness! 

O Lord that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness! 

There’s some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable. 

I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop. 

Our jovial star reigned at his birth. 

Ingratitude is monstrous. 

Nature does require her time of preservation, which perforce, I her frail son amongst my brethren mortal, must give my attendance to. 

I must to the barber’s, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face. 

I can call spirits from the vasty deep. 

The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness. 

Men prize the thing ungained more than it is. 

Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich. 

For my own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean, But ‘banished’ to kill me-‘banished’? O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howling attends it! How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend professed, To mangle me with that word ‘banished’? 

Myself-a prince by fortune of my birth, Near to the king in blood, and near in love Till you did make him misinterpret me- Have stooped my neck under your injuries And sighed my English breath in foreign clouds, Eating the bitter bread of banishment, Whilst you have fed upon my signories, Disparked my parks and felled my forest woods, From my own windows torn my household coat, Rased out my imprese, leaving me no sign, Save men’s opinions and my living blood, To show the world I am a gentleman. 

Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone. 

A tardiness in nature, Which often leaves the history unspoke, That it intends to do. 

There should be hours for necessities, not for delights; times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times. 

The sense of death is most in apprehension. 

The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be King Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. 

Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow. 

And send him many years of sunshine days! 

This is some fellow, Who having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness and constrains the garb Quite from his nature: he can’t flatter, he! An honest mind and plain,-he must speak truth! And they will take it so; if not he’s plain. These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness Harbor more craft, and far corrupter ends, Than twenty silly, ducking observants, That stretch their duty nicely. 

I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple; Scambling, out-facing, fashion-mong’ring boys, That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave, and slander, Go antickly, and show outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; And this is all. 

They that have voice of lions and act of hares,-are they not monsters? 

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud. 

My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o’ th’ chiefest soldiers; I’ll be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speaks mournfully, Trail your steel spikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist. 

Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud’s town march, And in the temple of the great Jupiter Our peace we’ll ratify, seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were washed, with such a peace. 

Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate. 

Well, while I live I’ll fear no other thing So sore as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring. 

Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put sullen black incontinent. I’ll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after. Grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier. 

Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord, That would reduce these bloody days again And make poor England weep in streams of blood! Let them not live to taste this land’s increase That would with treason wound this fair land’s peace! Now civil wounds are stopped, peace lives again: That she may long live here, God say amen! 

A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain; But that’s all one, our play is done, And we’ll strive to please you every day. 

Fight valiantly to-day; and yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valor. 

There is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s commendation with woman than report of valor. 

What valor were it, when a cur doth grin, for one to thrust his hand between his teeth, when he might spurn him with his foot away? 

We must be brief when traitors brave the field. 

Like one who draws the model of a house beyond his power to build it who, half through, gives o’er, and leaves his part-created cost a naked subject to the weeping clouds. 

It is a sin to be a mocker. 

For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. 

A woman’s fitness comes by fits. 

Speak, what trade art thou? Why, sir, a carpenter. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What does thou with thy best apparel on? 

No, by my soul, I never in my life Did hear a challenge urged more modestly, Unless a brother should a brother dare To gentle exercise and proof of arms. 

Against ill chances men are ever merry, But heaviness foreruns the good event. 

This world is not for aye, nor ’tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change, For ’tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. 

That we would do We should do when we would, for this ‘would’ changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents, And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh, That hurts by easing. 

All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral- Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; And all things change them to the contrary. 

The love of wicked men converts to fear; That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death. 

Nay, had I pow’r, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. 

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown. 

Of chastity, the ornaments are chaste. 

Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition: Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away. 

My prophecy is but half his journey yet, For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet. 

Comets importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars. 

O my good lord, that comfort comes too late, ‘Tis like a pardon after execution. That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me; But now I am past all comforts here but prayers. 

One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony. 

Obey thy parents, keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man’s sworn spouse; set not thy sweet heart on proud array. * * * Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy pen from lenders’ books. 

Be as just and gracious unto me, As I am confident and kind to thee. 

Conscience is a blushing, shamefaced spirit than mutinies in a man’s bosom; it fills one full of obstacles. 

Conscience is a thousand swords. 

The color of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds ‘twixt two dreadful battles set: His passion is so ripe, it needs must break. 

Better be with the dead, Whom we to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. 

Besides, they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us all, admonishing That we should drew us fairly for our end. 

Tis a blushing shame-faced spirit that mutinies in a man’s bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that (by chance) I found. It beggars any man that keeps it. 

Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls; Conscience is but a work that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe: Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law! 

Yet, for I know thou art religious And hast a thing within thee called conscience, With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies Which I have seen thee careful to observe, Therefore I urge thy oath; for that I know An idiot holds his bauble for a god And keeps the oath which by that god he swears, To that I’ll urge him: therefore thou shalt vow By that same god, what god soe’er it be, That thou adorest and hast in reverence, To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up, Or else I will discover naught to thee. 

Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are! 

Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think’st him wronged, and mak’st his ear A stranger to thy thoughts. 

O constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain ‘tween my heart and tongue! I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might. 

If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me; For such as I am all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else Save in the constant image of the creature That is beloved. 

Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me. 

Contention, like a horse, Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose, And bears down all before him. 

The cheek Is apter than the tongue to tell an errand. 

Live loath’d and long, Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites, Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, You fools of fortune, trencher friends, time flies Cap and knee slaves, vapors, and minute jacks. 

Poor wretches that depend On greatness’ favor, dream as I have done; Wake, and find nothing. 

The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away. 

The thorny point Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred And know some nurture. 

Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. 

Women are angels, wooing: Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing: That she beloved knows naught, that knows not this- Men prize the thing ungained more than it is. 

Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother. 

Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune’s champion, that dost never fight But where her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety. 

For my part, I may speak it to my shame, I have a truant been to chivalry; And so I hear he doth account me too. 

Foul fiend of France and hag of all despite, Encompassed with thy lustful paramours, Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age And twit with cowardice a man half dead? 

Milk-livered man, That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honor from thy suffering; [that not know’st Fools do those villains pity who are punished Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum? France spreads his banners in our noiseless land, With plumed helm thy state begins to threat, Whilst thou, a moral fool, sits still and cries ‘Alack, why does he so?’] 

Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes. 

Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream. 

Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipped of justice. 

If little faults proceeding on distemper Shall not be winked at, how shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chewed, swallowed, and digested, Appear before us? 

The wounds invisible that Love’s keen arrows make. 

All the contagion of the south light on you, You shames of Rome! you herd of-boils and plagues Plaster you o’er; that you may be abhorr’d Further than seen, and one infect another Against the wind a mile! 

May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode! But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves. 

Villains, vipers, damn’d without redemption; Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man; Snakes in my heart-blood warm’d, that sing my heart; Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas. 

If is a custom, More honor’d in the breach than the observance. 

The breach of custom Is breach of all. 

The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down. 

What man dare, I dare. Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The armed rhinoceros, or th’ Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble. 

Thou hast her, France; let her be thine, for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. 

The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light. 

The morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness. 

Yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day. 

My way of life Is fall’n into the sear and yellow leaf. 

Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canter dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all. 

For what I will, I will, and there an end. 

Sick in the world’s regard, wretched and low. 

Is this government of Britain’s Isle, and this the royalty of Albion’s King? 

How slow This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires, Like to a stepdame, or a dowager, Long withering out a young man’s revenue. 

Extremity is the trier of spirits. 

Fairies use flowers for their charactery. 

Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality. 

Past all shame, so past all truth. 

Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars That make ambition virtue. 

Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, th’ ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! 

And mind, with my heart in’t; and now farewell Till half an hour hence. 

If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love’s keen, arrows make. 

In maiden meditation, fancy free. 

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women’s are. 

Hang those that talk of fear. 

Nothing routs us but the villainy of our fears. 

But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly. 

To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe, And so your follies fight against yourself. Fear, and be slain-so worse can come to fight; And fight and die is death destroying death, Where fearing dying pays death servile breath. 

Chain me with roaring bears; Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house, O’er-covered quite with dead men’s rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid me go into a new-made grave, And hide me with a dead man in his shroud; Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble; And I will do it without Fear or Doubt, To live an unstain’d Wife of my sweet Love. 

O, where is loyalty? If it be banished from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbor in the earth? 

No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery. 

Oh, flatter me; for love delights in praises. 

Should the poor be flattered? No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning. 

O Prosperina, For the flowers now that, frighted, thou let’st fall From Dis’s wagon; daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength-a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one. 

Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer’s death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o’ th’ season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature’s bastards. 

A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ th’ forest, A motley fool! a miserable world! As I do live by food, I met a fool Who laid him down and basked him in the sun And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms, and yet a motley fool. 

Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me. Now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass; so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, any by my friends I am abused; so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends, and the better for my foes. 

There are a sort of men, whose visages Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond; And do a willful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity profound conceit; As who should say, I am sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark! 

In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue. 

Though Fortune’s malice overthrow my state, My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel. 

The summer’s flow’r is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die’ But if that flow’r with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 

Tis better using France than trusting France; Let us be back’d with God, and with the seas, Which He hath given for fence impregnable, And with their helps only defend ourselves; In them, and in ourselves, our safety lies. 

Fruits that blossom first will first be ripe. 

Before thee stands this fair Hesperides, With golden fruit, but dangerous to be touched; For death-like dragons here affright thee hard. 

O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times. 

Men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages: A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross. 

That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack, when it begins to rain, And leave thee in a storm. 

It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won. 

Bounty, being free itself, thinks all others so. 

O the world is but a word; were it all yours to give it in a breath, how quickly were it gone! 

To be generous, guiltless, and of a free disposition is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets. 

O heresy in fair, fit for these days, A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. 

There is none but he Whose being I do fear; and under him My genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. 

We must be gentle now we are gentlemen. 

My master hath been an honorable gentleman; tricks he hath had in him which gentlemen have. 

I am thy father’s spirit; Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night And, for the day, confin’d to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purg’d away. 

Glory grows guilty of detested crimes. 

Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live But in a dream of friendship, To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnished friends? 

How much an ill word may empoison liking! 

Foul whisp’rings are abroad. 

How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green! 

A heavier task could not have been impos’d, Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable. 

A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder. 

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help; and study help for that which thou lamentest. 

Great griefs medicine the less. 

Grief hath two tongues; and never woman yet Could rule them both without ten women’s wit. 

I am not prone to weeping as our sex commonly are; the want of which vain dew perchance shall dry your pities; but I have that honorable grief lodged here which burns worse than tears drown. 

None can cure their harms by wailing them. 

Sorrow, like a heavy ringing bell, once set on ringing, with its own weight goes; then little strength rings out the doleful knell. 

The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy. 

Weep I cannot; But my heart bleeds. 

What’s the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one. 

Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate. 

Who alone suffers suffers most i’ th’ mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind; But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. 

But there is no such man; for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words. 

Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Hath raised me from my bed; nor doth the general care Take hold on me; for my particular grief Is of so floodgate and o’erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself. 

When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. 

He must needs go that the devil drives. 

No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. 

The devil shall have his bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs-he will give the devil his due. 

Your worm is your only emperor for diet; we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. 

What is more miserable than discontent? 

A dream itself is but a shadow. 

If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. 

Never anything can be amiss, when simpleness and duty tender it. 

The earth, that is nature’s mother, is her tomb. 

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory. 

An envious fever of pale and bloodless emulation. 

Things may serve long, but not serve ever. 

More can I bear than you dare execute. 

Our enemies are our outward consciences. 

I am wrapped in dismal thinking. 

The error of our eye directs our mind. What error leads must err. 

Allow not nature more than nature needs. 

Look on beauty, and you shall see ’tis purchased by the weight; which therein works a miracle in Nature, making them lightest that wear most of it: so are those crisped snaky golden locks which make such wanton gambols with the wind upon supposed fairness, often known to be the dowry of a second head, the skull that bred them in the sepulchre. 

Haste is needful in a desperate case. 

Modest wisdom plucks me from over-credulous haste. 

In friendship, as in love, we are often happier through our ignorance than our knowledge. 

Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. 

By a divine instinct, men’s minds mistrust ensuing danger; as, by proof, we see the waters swell before a boisterous storm. 

The king is but a man, as I am; the violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions; his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing. 

The presence of a king engenders love Amongst his subjects, and his royal friends. 

Kindness nobler ever than revenge. 

Light and lust are deadly enemies. 

The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity’s revolt to wantonness. 

A maiden hath no tongue-but thought. 

As a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honorable than the bare brow of a bachelor. 

Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy. 

Miracles are ceased; and therefore we must needs admit the means, how things are perfected. 

Can it be chat modesty may more betray Our sense than woman’s lightness? 

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. 

In persons grafted in a serious trust, Negligence is a crime. 

Let them obey that knows not how to rule. 

Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself. 

It provokes the desire but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him and it mars him; it sets him on and it takes him off. 

I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; so full of valor that they smote the air, for breathing in their faces, beat the ground for kissing of their feet. 

O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping. 

Patch up thine old body for heaven. 

The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him. 

Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. 

Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt. 

Therefore, to be possess’d with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. 

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? – Lady Macbeth 

One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. 

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. 

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. . . . 

One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages. 

Our wills and fates do so contrary run. 

I…Kisss the tender inward of thy hand. 

Ha. “Against my will I am sent to bid you come into dinner.” There’s a double meaning in that. -Benedick (Much Ado) 

If your mind dislike anything obey it 

The sweetest honey is loathsome in its own deliciousness. And in the taste destroys the appetite. Therefore, love moderately. 

Love from one side hurts, but love from two sides heals. 

It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician. 

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle’s compass come. 

I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so. 

Doubt is a thief that often makes us fear to tread where we might have won. 

Man and wife, being two, are one in love. 

It is the disease of not listening…… that I am troubled with. 

The Eyes are the window to your soul 

I’ll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I’ll drown my book! 

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. 

Give thanks for what you are today and go on fighting for what you gone be tomorrow 

There is Throats to be cut, and Works to be done. 

For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error. 

So many horrid Ghosts. 

A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing. 

Know more than other. Work more than other. Expect less than other 

A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart. 

Thou canst not speak of thou dost not feel. 

What must be shall be. 

Ready to go but never to return. 

Like a red morn that ever yet betokened, Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to the shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds. 

He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings. 

I am your wife if you will marry me. If not, I’ll die your maid. To be your fellow You may deny me, but I’ll be your servant Whether you will or no. 

Costly thy habit [dress] as thy purse can buy; But not expressed in fancy – rich, not gaudy. For the apparel oft proclaims the man. 

And in the end… the love you get equals the love you give 

The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil’d, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d 

I fill up a place, which may be better… when I have made it empty. 

And thence from Athens turn away our eyes To seek new friends and stranger companies. 

Men must learn now with pity to dispense; For policy sits above conscience. 

Tis in my memory lock’d, And you yourself shall keep the key of it. 

HAMLET […] we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table; that’s the end. CLAUDIUS Alas, alas. HAMLET A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm. CLAUDIUS What dost thou mean by this? HAMLET Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar. 

ROSENCRANTZ My lord, you must tell us where the body is, and go with us to the king. HAMLET The body is with the king, but the king is not with the body. The king is a thing – GUILDENSTERN A thing my lord? HAMLET Of nothing. Bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after! 

A young man married is a man that’s marred. 

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins, 

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot; Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry – God for Harry! England and Saint George! 

Are you up to your destiny? 

Swift as shadow, short as any dream 

Thou shalt be free As mountain winds: but then exactly do All points of my command. 

If thou dost love, proclaim it faithfully. 

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov’d that lov’d not at first sight. 

Live how we can, yet die we must. 

Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other, And I will look on both indifferently. 

Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul! 

for my grief’s so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1) 

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy’s followers. 

And sleep, that sometime shuts up sorrow’s eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company. 

Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,-Macbeth shall sleep no more! 

Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ’tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil 

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended. 

I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me. 

It is my soul that calls upon my name; How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! -Romeo 

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. 

My liege, and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. 

My father’s wit, and my mother’s tongue, assist me! 

Make passionate my sense of hearing. 

Refrain to-night; And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence, the next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either master the devil or throw him out With wondrous potency. 

Every cloud engenders not a storm. 

Good wombs have borne bad sons.” – (Miranda, I:2) 

Care for us! True, indeed! They ne’er cared for us yet: suffer us to famish, and their storehouses crammed with grain; make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there’s all the love they bear us. 

I kissed thee ere I killed thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss. 

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. 

Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender’s books, and defy the foul fiend. 

Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on. 

I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin’s back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song; And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid’s music. 

I’ll have no husband, if you be not he. 

And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs. 

I am not yet of Percy’s mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, ‘Fie upon this quiet life! I want work. 

Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best. 

To go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes 

And what’s he then that says I play the villain? 

Fondling,’ she saith, ‘since I have hemm’d thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie. 

A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse! 

Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity. 

Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful 

Oh why rebuke you him that loves you so? / Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. 

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

I’ll not meddle with it. It makes a man a coward: a man cannot steal but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbor’s wife but it detects him. ‘Tis a blushing, shamefaced spirit that mutinies in a man’s bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that by chance I found. It beggars any man that keeps it. It is turned out of towns and cities for a dangerous thing, and every man that means to live well endeavors to trust to himself and live without it. 

When devils will the blackest sins put on They do suggest at first with heavenly shows 

Don Pedro – (…)’In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.’ Benedick – The savage bull may, but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns and set them in my forehead, and let me be vildly painted; and in such great letters as they writes, ‘Here is good horse for hire’, let them signify under my sign, ‘Here you may see Benedick the married man. 

I always feel happy, you know why? Because I don’t expect anything from anyone. Expectations always hurt. Life is short, so love your life, be happy and keep smiling. 

Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. 

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears. 

For trust not him that hath once broken faith 

O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains!” – Cassio (Act II, Scene iii) 

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. . . . 

Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death’s. 

And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge. 

We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have. 

…and then, in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open and show riches / Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked / I cried to dream again. 

The earth has music for those that listen. 

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true? 

Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarr’d the moon with splinters: here I clip The anvil of my sword, and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I loved the maid I married; never man Sigh’d truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. 

a girl takes too much time to love and a few seconds to hate. but a boy takes a few seconds to love and too much time to hate. 

The choices we make, dictate the lives we lead 

The head is not more native to the heart. 

I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. 

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list! 

By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me. 

Benvolio- “By my head, here come the Capulets.” Mercutio- “By my heel, I care not. 

Happy are those who hear their detractions and can put them to mending. 

His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend. His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract. 

I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. 

To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons. 

Dream in light years, challenge miles, walk step by step 

When the sea was calm all ships alike showed mastership in floating. 

Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying! 

Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day. 

Nothing in his life became him like leaving it. 

Never Play With The Feelings Of Others, Because You May Win The Game But The Risk Is That You Will Surely Lose The Person For Life Time 

Let me confess that we two must be twain, although our undivided loves are one. 

Antonio: Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you? Sebastian: By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love to lay any of them on you. 

I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. 

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all 

All the world’s a stage. 

Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, ‘Hold, enough! 

Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty. 

Good with out evil is like light with out darkness which in turn is like righteousness whith out hope. 

Tam: What begg’st thou then? fond woman, let me go. Lav: ‘Tis present death I beg; and one thing more That womanhood denies my tongue to tell. O! keep me from their worse than killing lust, And tumble me into some loathsome pit, Where never man’s eye may behold my body: Do this, and be a charitable murderer. Tam: So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee: No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. Dem: Away! for thou hast stay’d us here too long. Lav: No grace! no womanhood! Ah, beastly creature, The blot and enemy to our general name. Confusion fall- 

For who so firm that cannot be seduced? 

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. 

There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger. 

It is a good divine that follows his own instructions. 

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. 

When most I wink, then do my eyes best see 

To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature. 

What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since everyone hath every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you. On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new. Speak of the spring and foison of the year; The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear, And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart. 

And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love. 

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love. 

Stars hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires: The eyes wink at the hand; yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see 

When lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner 

One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours. 

I never yet did hear, That the bruis’d heart was pierced through the ear 

He is as full of valor as of kindness. Princely in both. 

Every subject’s duty is the King’s; but every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore, should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience; and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him that escapes, it were no sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive the day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare. 

Nice customs curtsy to great kings. 

Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee. 

You know who you are, but know not who you could be. 

O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature’s soft nurse. 

At this hour Lie at my mercy all mine enemies. 

Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of our generation you shall find. 

These sudden joys have sudden endings. They burn up in victory like fire and gunpowder. 

I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows. 

I long to hear the story of your life, which must captivate the ear strangely. 

Love is familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.” – 

So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground. 

Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day. 

Come not between the dragon and his wrath. 

Let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal. 

Remuneration! O! That’s the Latin word for three farthings 

[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. 

I cannot speak your england. 

RUMOUR: “Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. 

Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it. 

A sad tale’s best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins. 

Make not your thoughts your prisons. 

Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear 

What’s past and what’s to come is strew’d with husks And formless ruin of oblivion. 

Press not a falling man too far; ’tis virtue: His faults lie open to the laws; let them, Not you, correct him. 

You must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. 

Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, more than quick words, do move a woman’s mind. 

The devil knew what he did when he made men politic; he crossed himself by it. 

The sweets we wish for, turn to loathed sours, Even in the moment that we call them ours. 

Good things should be praised. 

That is not the best sermon which makes the hearers go away talking to one another and praising the speaker, but which makes them go away thoughtful and serious, and hastening to be alone. 

The present eye praises the present object. 

All pride is willing pride. 

When a gentlemen is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. 

I do know when the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows. 

Love reasons without reason. 

Good reasons must of force give place to better. 

But since the affairs of men rests still incertain, Let’s reason with the worst that may befall. 

I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. 

Forget, forgive; conclude, and be agreed. 

Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue. 

You have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser. 

Pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision. 

To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience, and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation: To this point I stand,- That both the worlds I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d. 

There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous men. 

I profess not talking: only this, Let each man do his best. 

Hold, or cut bowstrings. 

We must not stint Our necessary actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever, As rav’nous fishes, do a vessel follow That is new-trimmed, but benefit no further Than vainly longing. 

I can counterfeit the deep tragedian; Speak and look back, and pry on every side, Tremble and start, at wagging of a straw, Intending deep suspicion. 

Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them. 

Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them. 

Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth, And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out. 

But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. 

Beauty lives with kindness. 

Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on. 

A book? O, rare one, Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. 

O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed. 

For the success, Although particular, shall give a scantling Of good or bad unto the general; And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mass Of things to come at large. 

Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Ang’ring itself and others. 

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere. 

Gently to hear, kindly to judge. 

So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenced in stronds afar remote. 

Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live regist’red upon our brazen tombs And then grace us in the disgrace of death; When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, Th’ endeavor of this present breath may buy That honor which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge And make us heirs of all eternity. 

Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, Thy God’s and truth’s. 

The Hebrew will turn Christian; he grows kind. 

A virtuous and a Christianlike conclusion- To pray for them that have done scathe to us. 

He that dies this year is quit for the next. 

England is safe, if true within itself. 

England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune. 

It was always yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common. 

After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live. 

Either our history shall with full mouth Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave, Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth, Not worshipped with a waxen epitaph. 

Best men oft are moulded out of faults. 

Every man has a bag hanging before him, in which he puts his neighbour’s faults, and another behind him in which he stows his own. 

Many dream not to find, neither deserve, and yet are steeped in favors. 

Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us anything. 

Friendship is full of dregs. 

Most friendship is faining, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly. This life is most jolly. 

Friendship’s full of dregs. 

Gold-what can it not do, and undo? 

However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God. 

God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks. 

Till all grace be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. 

To some kind of men their graces serve them but as enemies. 

When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right. 

Greatness, once fallen out with fortune, must fall out with men too. 

I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me. 

All offences come from the heart. 

A good heart ‘is worth gold. 

That is my home of love: if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged. 

An honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not. 

For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar. 

What’s the news? None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest, Then is doomsday near. 

The due of honor in no point omit. 

That is honor’s scorn Which challenges itself as honor’s born And is not like the sire. Honors thrive When rather from our acts we them derive Than our foregoers. 

If I lose my honor, I lose myself: better I were not yours Than yours so branchless. 

Greatness knows itself. 

Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com’st. Suppose the singing birds musicians, The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence strewed, The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more Than a delight measure or a dance; For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light. 

I’ll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As is a man were author of himself And knew no other kin. 

How many fond fools serve mad jealousy! 

I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority: To do a great right, do a little wrong. 

Justice always whirls in equal measure. 

Poise the cause in justice’s equal scales, Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails. 

Too much to know is to know nought but fame; And every godfather can give a name. 

Faith, I have been a truant in the law And never yet could frame my will to it, And therefore frame the law unto my will. 

When law can do no right, Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong. 

I am a subject, And I challenge law. Attorneys are denied me, And therefore personally I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent. 

Headstrong liberty is lashed with woe. 

I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please, for so fools have. 

Why, headstrong liberty is lashed with woe. There’s nothing situate under heaven’s eye But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky. 

I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born. 

Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more. 

Wish chastely, and love dearly. 

Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most, to my capacity. 

But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, ‘That’s good that’s gone. 

Love’s heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams Driving back shadows over low’ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. 

Love thyself last, cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

There is no creature loves me; And if I die, no soul will pity me. 

Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise. 

I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire, But qualify the fire’s extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. 

Misery makes sport to mock itself. 

Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather. 

The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven. 

If money go before, all ways do lie open. 

How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept! 

I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 

If I for my opinion bleed, opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt, and keep me on the side where still I am. 

Opinion crowns with an imperial voice. 

Opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects. 

Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them. 

Opinion’s but a fool, that makes us scan The outward habit by the inward man. 

The means that heaven yields must be embraced, and not neglected; else, if heaven would, and we will not heaven’s offer, we refuse the proffered means of succor and redress. 

All his successors gone before him have done ‘t; and all his ancestors that come after him may. 

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And asleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must be heard of, say, I taught thee. 

If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt. 

Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools. 

Let the sap of reason quench the fire of passion. 

Passion makes the will lord of the reason. 

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. 

In God’s name cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war. 

If yon bethink yourself of any crime Unreconcil’d as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight. 

Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered! 

Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All many be well. 

I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender. More than my all is nothing; nor my prayers Are not words holy hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return. 

We must follow, not force Providence. 

Rashly, And praised be rashness for it-let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do pall, and that should learn us There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will 

For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes, And hold-fast is the only dog. 

Full of wise saws and modern instances. 

An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye; Give him a little earth for charity! 

O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! 

Experience teacheth us That resolution ‘s a sole help at need: And this, my lord, our honour teacheth us, That we be bold in every enterprise: Then since there is no way, but fight or die, Be resolute, my lord, for victory. 

Put on The dauntless spirit of resolution. 

The gates of monarchs Are arched so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. 

The king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temp’rance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them, but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting in many ways. 

A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as dot an inland brook Into the main of waters. 

All surfeit is the father of much fast. 

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much. 

Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity. 

Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object. 

Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions. 

To kill, I grant, is sin’s extremest gust; But, in defence, by mercy, ’tis most just. 

Love yourself; and in that love not unconsidered leave your honor. 

Self-love is the most inhibited sin in the canon. 

Men have marble, women waxen, minds. 

Ingrateful man with liquorish draughts, and morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind that from it all consideration slips. 

O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, leave not the mansion so long tenantless; lest, growing ruinous, the building fall and leave no memory of what it was! 

You know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go. 

O villains, vipers, dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! 

Silence is only commendable In a neat’s tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. 

Be checked for silence, But never taxed for speech. 

Sin will pluck on sin. 

Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view. 

Thou art a slave, whom fortune’s tender arm With favour never clasp’d; but bred a dog. 

On Rumor’s tongue continual slanders ride. 

Slander, whose whisper over the world’s diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot. 

There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail. 

Downy sleep, death’s counterfeit. 

Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber. 

Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye. 

Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep. 

The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And Nature must obey necessity. 

Wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort. 

Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory? 

I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. 

Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honor for an inward toil; And, for unfelt imaginations, They often feel a world of restless cares. 

Nature does require her times of preservation. 

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. 

Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose to the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, and in the calmest and most stillest night, with all appliances and means to boot, deny it to a king? 

On your eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, Making such difference ‘twixt wake and sleep As is the difference betwixt day and night The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team Begins his golden progress in the east. 

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest. 

To bed, to bed; sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses, As infants empty of all thought. 

Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. 

The heavenly-harness’d team Begins his golden progress in the east. 

The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. 

I ‘gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone. 

When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, But creep in crannies when he hides his beams. 

Look how the world’s poor people are amazed at apparitions, signs and prodigies! 

See what a ready tongue suspicion hath! 

See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath! He that but fears the thing he would not know, Hath, by instinct, knowledge from others’ eyes, That what he feared is chanced. 

Suspicion shall be all stuck full of eyes. 

I’ll be damned for never a king’s son in Christendom. 

This act is an ancient tale new told; And, in the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable. 

Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk! 

Things are often spoke and seldom meant. 

I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valor. 

How many a holy and obsequious tear hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, as interest of the dead! 

Nature’s tears are reason’s merriment. 

Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining. 

The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform’d to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness. 

Venus smiles not in a house of tears. 

Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain. 

Lords, knights and gentlemen, what I should say My tears gainsay; for every word I speak, Ye see I drink the water of my eye. 

The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes; And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day. 

Thanks to men Of noble minds, is honorable meed. 

A woman’s thought runs before her actions. 

Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought. 

From this time forth My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! 

I and my bosom must debate awhile, and then I would no other company. 

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts. 

But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens! 

Are there no stones in heaven But what serves for thunder? 

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 

Tongues I’ll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show. . . . 

The heart hath treble wrong When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue. 

An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England. 

Travelers must be content. 

Travelers never did lie, though fools at home condemn them. 

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? 

My father names me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. 

No evil lost is wailed when it is gone. 

But yet, I say, if imputation and strong circumstances, which lead directly to the door of truth, will give you satisfaction, you may have it. 

I am as true as truth’s simplicity, And simpler than the infancy of truth. 

Truth needs no color; beauty, no pencil. 

What, can the devil speak true? 

But say, my lord, it were not regist’red, Methinks the truth should live from age to age, As ’twere retailed to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day. 

Hardness ever of hardness is mother. 

The weary sun hath made a golden set And by the bright tract of his fiery car Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow. 

Oh, I have passed a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams! 

How can tyrants safely govern home, Unless abroad they purchase great alliance. 

How easy it is for the proper-false in woman’s waxen hearts to set their forms! 

Use almost can change the stamp of nature. 

It is held that valor is the chiefest virtue, and most dignifies the haver. 

Vanity keeps persons in favor with themselves who are out of favor with all others. 

One sin another doth provoke. 

Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others’ eyes to spread itself. 

I came, saw, and overcame. 

Now the time is come, That France must veil her lofty-plumed crest, And let her head fall into England’s lap. 

Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win. 

But virtue never will be mov’d, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven. 

For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg. 

If our virtues did not go forth of us, it were all alike as if we had them not. 

Virtue preserv’d from fell destruction’s blast, Led on by heaven, and crown’d with joy at last. 

Virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. 

Virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth. 

My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation. 

Therefore it is most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm (his conscience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. 

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business. 

Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation. 

I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action. 

Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood; Amaze the welkin with your broken staves! 

Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies; Now thrive the armorers, and honor’s thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man. 

Religious canons, civil laws, are cruel; then what should war be? 

Shall we upon the footing of our land Send fair-play orders, and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truce, To arms invasive? 

It is war’s prize to take all vantages; And ten to one is no impeach of valor. 

The weakest goes to the wall. 

If she be not honest, chaste, and true, there’s no man happy. 

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine. 

A hundred thousand welcomes: I could weep, And I could laugh; I am light and heavy: Welcome. 

A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish. 

The appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. 

The will of man is by his reason sway’d. 

Wisdom and fortune combating together, If that the former dare but what it can, No chance may shake it. 

A good wit will make use of anything. 

I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools. 

Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams. 

So many miseries have craz’d my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute. 

Wise men ne’er sit and wail their woes, but presently prevent the ways to wail. 

I crave fit disposition for my wife; Due reference of place, and exhibition; With such accommodation, and besort, As levels with her breeding. 

Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle? 

As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another; The third o’ th’ world is yours, which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife. 

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

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

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

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

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

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. 

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

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

Two women placed together makes cold weather. 

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

Good words are better than bad strokes. 

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

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

What is aught but as ’tis valued? 

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

I am declined Into the vale of years. 

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. 

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

God defend the right. 

They that touch pitch will be defiled. 

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

Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. 

All is well ended, if the suit be won. 

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

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

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. 

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

Some innocents ‘scape not the thunderbolt. 

Omittance is no quittance. 

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

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

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

Some falls the means are happier to rise. 

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

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

Beware Of entrance to a quarrel. 

Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung. 

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

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

Wisely, I say, I am a bachelor. 

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

A man I am cross’d with adversity. 

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

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. 

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

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

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

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

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. 

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

Cowards die many times before their actual deaths. 

I love the name of honor, more than I fear death. 

Be still prepared for death: and death or life shall thereby be the sweeter. 

Hear the meaning within the word…. 

A contract of eternal bond of love, Confirm’d by mutual joinder of your hands, Arrested by the holy close of lips, Strength’ned by the interchangement of your rings, And all the ceremony of this compact Seal’d in my function, by my testimony. 

Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book. 

You’d be so lean, that blast of January Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair’st friend, I would I had some flowers o’ the spring that might Become your time of day. 

Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man. 

He is a heavy eater of beef. Me thinks it doth harm to his wit. 

Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish’d and deck’d in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem. 

O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men! 

Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart. 

If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not 

The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. 

He’s a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing. 

Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies. 

Which means she to deceive, father or mother? 

We are advertis’d by our loving friends. 

They love least that let men know their loves. 

The purest treasure mortal times can afford is a spotless reputation. 

If ever thou be’st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. 

Lord Bacon told Sir Edward Coke when he was boasting, The less you speak of your greatness, the more shall I think of it. 

We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them. 

Remembrance of things past. 

Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit. 

Constant you are, But yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know. 

Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy: sayest thou that house is dark? 

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, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage; 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. On, on, you noblest English. 

Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie? I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth; the Countercheck Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may avoid that too, with an If. . . . Your If is the only peace-maker; much virtue in If. 

Now, infidel, I have you on the hip! 

I do repent; but heaven hath pleas’d it so To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So again good night. I must be cruel only to be kind. Thus bad begins and worse remains behind. 

There’s nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil’d the sweet world’s taste That it yields nought but shame and bitterness. 

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy. 

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun 

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told. 

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. 

Hast any philosophy in thee shepherd? .� � � � . . . He that wants money, means and content, is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred. 

Desperate times breed desperate measures 

The king’s name is a tower of strength. 

What’s to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth’s a stuff will not endure. 

A thousand kisses buys my heart from me; And pay them at thy leisure, one by one. 

Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble? 

Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate. 

O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgined it e’er since. 

Upon thy cheek I lay this zealous kiss, as seal to the indenture of my love. 

If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. 

You kiss by th’ book. 

Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life’s means! 

Lay aside life-harming heaviness, And entertain a cheerful disposition. 

Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. 

Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep. 

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our own virtues. 

And my poor fool is hanged! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more, Never, Never, Never, Never, Never! Pray you, undo this button. 

Think’st thou I’d make a life of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt Is once to be resolved. 

Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, Where death’s approach is seen so terrible! 

. . . nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As ’twere a careless trifle. 

All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content; which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day. 

Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day: 

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search. 

O, how full of briers is this working-day world! 

O! that a man might know The end of this day’s business, ere it come; But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known. 

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: today he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And – when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening – nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. 

And simple truth miscalled simplicity 

Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves. 

I have touch’d the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting. 

Dreams are the children of idled minds. 

That strain again! It had a dying fall: O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more: ‘Tis not so sweet as it was before. 

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid! 

Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. 

Love is . . . a madness most discreet 

CLEOPATRA: If it be love indeed, tell me how much. ANTONY: There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned. CLEOPATRA: I’ll set a bourne how far to be belov’d. ANTONY: Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth. 

Love moderately; long love doth so; too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. 

Why, friends, you go to do you know not what: Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not: I must tell you then: You have forgot the will I told you of. . . . . Here is the will, and under Caesar’s seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. . . . . Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbours and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs for ever, common pleasures, To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! when comes such another? 

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, ‘This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’ 

Affection is a coal that must be cooled; else, suffered, it will set the heart on fire. 

No worse a husband than the best of men. 

Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me. 

Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. 

Hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig. 

You Jig, you amble, and you lisp. 

Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then ’tis time to do’t. Hell is murky! 

My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time’s furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate. 

ROMEO to BALTHASAR But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry In what I further shall intend to do, By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs: The time and my intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. 

But whate’er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If you have ever looked on better days, If ever been where bells knoll’d to church, If ever sat at any good man’s feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, And know what ’tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be. . . . 

I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant. 

Love adds a precious seeing to the eye. 

This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions; these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. 

Love asks me no questions, and gives me endless support. 

This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine. 

The let-alone lies not in your good will. 

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, / I must not look to have; but, in their stead, / Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, / Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not” (5.3.25-28). 

Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible. 

How is it that the clouds still hang on you? 

If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumbered here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: If you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends. 

Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as ’twere, in love, Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity; so fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. 

Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it. 

Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night. 

My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white. 

A little water clears us of this deed. 

To beguile the time, look like the time. 

To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue. 

Hereditary sloth instructs me. 

Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot. 

These cardinals trifle with me; I abhor; This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome. 

And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness! 

I rather would entreat thy company; To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. 

O, reason not the need! 

Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter. 

Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me, In thy opinion which is worthiest love? 

Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers’ swords! 

Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone. 

Even so; an’t please your worship, Brakenbury, You may partake of any thing we say: We speak no treason, man; we say the King Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous; We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot, A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue; And that the Queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks. 

He was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Amongst the rar’st of good ones- sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the eye- CYMBELINE. 

And she’s fair I love. 

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious. 

‘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. 

That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty. 

Sir, he’s a good dog, and a fair dog. 

Withal I did infer your lineaments, Being the right idea of your father, Both in your form and nobleness of mind; Laid open all your victories in Scotland, Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, Your bounty, virtue, fair humility; Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose Untouch’d or slightly handled in discourse. 

To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer. 

Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir; That fair for which love groan’d for and would die, With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair. 

Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence! 

Because I cannot flatter and look fair, Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog, Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, I must be held a rancorous enemy. 

Come, go with us, speak fair; you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the los Of what is past. 

What the vengeance, could he not speak ’em fair? 

Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. 

She says I am not fair, that I lack manners; She calls me proud, and that she could not love me, Were man as rare as Phoenix. 

Who is Silvia What is she, That all our swains commend her Holy, fair, and wise is she. 

Good morrow, fair ones; pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenc’d about with olive trees? 

I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair, and labour’d much How to forget that learning; but, sir, now It did me yeoman’s service. 

Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. 

But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join’d to make thee great: Of Nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose; but Fortune, O! 

If you did wed my sister for her wealth, Then for her wealth’s sake use her with more kindness; Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth; Muffle your false love with some show of blindness; Let not my sister read it in your eye; Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator; Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty; Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger; Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted; Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint; Be secret-false. 

And do so, love, yet when they have devised What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized In true plain words by thy true-telling friend; And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused. 

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. 

. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest. 

If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, The one’s for use, the other useth it. 

Is she kind as she is fair? 

Advance our standards, set upon our foes; Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George, Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons! 

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air. 

Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden. 

Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypres let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 

Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold; methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch. 

But pearls are fair; and the old saying is: Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes. 

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’! 

The arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just. 

“Fair, kind, and true” is all my argument, “Fair, kind, and true” varying to other words; And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. 

As I hope For quiet days, fair issue, and long life, With such love as ’tis now, the murkiest den, The most opportune place, the strong’st suggestion Our worser genius can, shall never melt Mine honour into lust, to take away The edge of that day’s celebration, When I shall think or Phoebus’ steeds are founder’d Or Night kept chain’d below. 

Fair Katherine, and most fair, Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms Such as will enter at a lady’s ear, And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart? 

‘By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible true, that thou art beauteous truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal. 

Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair Which this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live your self in eyes of men. 

Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee. 

Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows As false as dicers’ oaths. 

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still: The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. 

Rest you fair, good signior; Your worship was the last man in our mouths. 

you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois’d with herself in either eye; But in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d Your lady’s love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now seems best. 

The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good. 

Coward dogs most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten runs far before them. 

There’s no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. 

As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free. 

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one. 

Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. 

The big round tears Cours’d one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase. 

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. 

That’s a valiant flea that dares eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion. 

Though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve. 

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings. 

This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire. 

Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up tine, supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness, or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. 

He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. 

Soft pity enters an iron gate. 

When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes. 

Love is merely a madness. 

The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will, the story shall be changed: Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase; The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger; bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies. 

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is’t not enough, is’t not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye, But you must flout my insufficiency? 

Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty. 

No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity. 

There’s her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December. 

A man cannot make him laugh – but that’s no marvel; he drinks no wine. 

Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish’d and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. 

I must be gone and live, or stay and die. 

For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation. 

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun. 

Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? 

Assure thee, if I do vow a friendship, I’ll perform it to the last article.” -Othello, Act III, Scene iii 

You dull ass will not mend his pace with beating. 

I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch. 

Is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! 

Thus hath the candle sing’d the moth. O these deliberate fools! 

Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. then your love would also change. 

one pain is cured by another. catch some new infection in your eye and the poison of the old one would die. 

Don’t waste your love on somebody, who doesn’t value it. 

My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten. 

Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 

If people knew how much I hated them, they’d love me for holding it in. 

Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose you resolved to effect. 

Night’s candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops.” Hope tinged with melancholy – like life. 

A plague on both your houses. 

To sleep perchance to dream 

I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust: to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise, and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish. 

To die, is to be banish’d from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish’d from her, Is self from self: a deadly banishment! What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? Unless it be to think that she is by, And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, There is no day for me to look upon; She is my essence, and I leave to be, If I be not by her fair influence Foster’d, illumin’d, cherish’d, kept alive. 

God send everyone their heart’s desire! 

I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me 

A good heart is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes. 

Is not the truth the truth? 

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue 

I have no way and therefore want no eyes I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen our means secure us, and our mere defects prove our commodities. 

And nothing is, but what is not. 

Until I know this sure uncertainty, I’ll entertain the offered fallacy. 

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think. 

Glendower: I can call the spirits from the vasty deep. Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come, when you do call for them? 

I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine. 

The wind-shak’d surge, with high and monstrous main, Seems to cast water on the burning Bear, And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole. 

Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin. 

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they’ll disdain me 

Ill deeds is doubled with an evil word. 

If she lives till doomsday, she’ll burn a week longer than the whole world. 

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time’s deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice? 

We came into the world like brother and brother, And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another. 

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. 

Love is a smoke rais’d with the fume of sighs; being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet. 

Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech. 

I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . . 

He reads much; He is a great observer and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music; Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart’s ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous. 

This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven. 

We that are true lovers run into strange capers. 

We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion. 

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent. 

O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! 

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 

Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat; Of habits devil, is angel yet in this. 

Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw does pierce it. 

I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus. 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? 

Bassanio: Do all men kill all the things they do not love? Shylock: Hates any man the thing he would not kill? Bassanio: Every offence is not a hate at first. 

If there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it, Making it momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say ‘Behold!’ The jaws of darkness do devour it up; So quick bright things come to confusion. 

Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her. 

Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered? 

If he be so resolved, I can o’ersway him; for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betrayed with trees And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers 

By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart’s love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord. 

What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery? 

O that men’s ears should be To counsel deaf but not to flattery! 

They do not abuse the king that flatter him. For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; The thing the which is flattered, but a spark To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing; 

Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; For ‘get you gone,’ she doth not mean ‘away.’ Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces 

To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! 

I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection. 

For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me! 

Small things make base men proud. 

Being daily swallowed by men’s eyes, They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to be seen, He was but as the cuckoo is in June. Heard, not regarded. 

A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity; but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men. 

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men. 

Just death, kind umpire of men’s miseries. 

Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour. 

Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed King; 

My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay… Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done. 

Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard’s night to Bolingbrooke’s fair day. 

the time of life is short; To spend that shortness basely were too long. 

Cheerily to sea; the signs of war advance: No king of England, if not king of France 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall with our English dead. 

ROMEO There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet’s grave; for there must I use thee. 

Proper deformity shows not in the fiend So horrid as in woman. 

So sweet was ne’er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow’s heavenly; it strikes where it doth love. 

“Lawyers Are”: Perilous mouths. 

The devil is a gentleman. 

I hate ingratitude more in a man than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, or any taint of vice whose strong corruption inhabits our frail blood”. 

Benvolio: What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours? Romeo: Not having that, which, having, makes them short. 

But here’s the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery! 

It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death’s-bed-Got deliver to a joyful resurrections! 

A goodly portly man, i’ faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by’r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff. 

Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England; fairly met! 

My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish’d this world’s eternity. 

Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne’er dream’d a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience. 

There’s nothing in this world can make me joy. 

For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy. 

O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess! 

My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world! 

What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman. 

I’ll note you in my book of memory. 

Do you take me for a sponge, my lord? hamlet: Ay, sir; that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again. rosencrantz: I understand you not, my lord. hamlet: I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear. 

in that small [time] most greatly lived this star of England: Fortune made his sword, By which the world’s best garden he achiev’d And left it to his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown’d King of France and England did this King succeed; Whose state so many of had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed. 

Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry ‘content’ to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions 

I’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; I’ll slay more gazers than the basalisks; I’ll play the orator as well as Nestor, Decieve more slily that Ulysses could, And like a Sinon, take another Troy. I can add colors to the chameleon, Change shapes with Proteus for advantages And set the murderous Machiavel to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? Tut! were it further off, I’ll pluck it down. 

Shine out fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass. 

Short summers lightly have a forward spring. 

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high’st degree; Murder, stern murder in the dir’st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, ‘Guilty!, guilty! 

And then he drew a dial from his poke, And looking with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, ‘It is ten o’clock: Thus we may see’, Quoth he, ‘how the world wags: ‘Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more ’twill be eleven; And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot. 

He hath disgrac’d me and hind’red me half a million; laugh’d at my losses, mock’d at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies. And what’s his reason? I am a Jew. 

The poorest service is repaid with thanks. 

I will do anything … ere I’ll be married to a sponge. 

All that glitters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life has sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold Had you been as wise as bold, Your in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been in’scroll’d Fare you well: your suit is cold.’ Cold, indeed, and labour lost: Then, farewell, heat and welcome, frost! 

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. 

A table-full of welcome! 

Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; With them forgive yourself. 

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty? 

But till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, and excellent musician and her hair shall be of what colour it shall please God. 

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the sea, puffed up with winds, Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? Have I not heard great ordinance in the field, And Heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud ‘larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang? And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire? Tush! tush! fear boys with bugs. Grumio: For he fears none. 

Say she rail; why, I’ll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash’d with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word; Then I’ll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence. 

I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, My gay apparel for an almsman’s gown, My figured goblets for a dish of wood, My scepter for a palmer’s walking staff My subjects for a pair of carved saints and my large kingdom for a little grave. 

Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame. 

I hate the murderer, love him murdered. 

Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. 

And Caesar shall go forth. 

Speak comfortable words. 

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back. 

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.- Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts! 

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest, and despair most fits. 

You taught me language, and my profit on’t / Is, I know how to curse 

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I’ll wink and couch; no man their works must eye. 

Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me. 

It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance 

For some must watch, while some must sleep So runs the world away 

If [God] send me no husband, for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening … 

Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy and say ‘Father, as it please you.’ But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say ‘Father, as it please me. 

LEONATO Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. BEATRICE Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a pierce of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I’ll none: Adam’s sons are my brethren; and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. 

DON PEDRO Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick. BEATRICE Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for his single one: marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your grace may well say I have lost it. DON PEDRO You have put him down, lady, you have put him down. BEATRICE So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. 

Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites. 

So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. 

When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave. 

O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart.”-Helena 

Time travels at different speeds for different people. I can tell you who time strolls for, who it trots for, who it gallops for, and who it stops cold for. 

Appetite, a universal wolf. 

We strut and fret our hour upon the stage and then are no more. 

Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty. 

A blind man can’t forget the eyesight he lost, show me any beautiful girl. How can her beauty not remind me of the one whose beauty surpasses hers? 

All that glitters is not gold. 

He that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache 

If we are true to ourselves, we can not be false to anyone. 

Put money in thy purse. 

But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. 

Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, Manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man 

Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment. 

Seems,” madam? Nay, it is; I know not “seems.” ‘Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected ‘havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe. 

It is better to have burnt & lost, then to never have barbecued at all. 

Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well. Awake. 

Love’s not love When it is mingled with regards that stand Aloof from th’ entire point. 

Up and down, up and down I will lead them up and down I am feared in field in town Goblin, lead them up and down 

But ’tis common proof, that lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face; but when he once attains the upmost round, he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the vase defrees by which he did ascend. 

The eye sees all, but the mind shows us what we want to see. 

Do all men kill the things they do not love ………… The quality of mercy is not strain’d It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest It blesseth him that gives and him that takes 

Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness. 

And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury. 

so full of shapes is fancy 

And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach, Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch’d. 

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. 

Zounds! sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you. 

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency. 

Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye. 

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood. 

Tempt not a desperate man 

…too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy. 

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living. 

He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter. 

Men’s faults do seldom to themselves appear. 

Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly. 

Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am 

My noble father, I do perceive here a divided duty. To you I am bound for life and education. My life and education both do learn me How to respect you. You are the lord of my duty, I am hitherto your daughter. But here’s my husband, And so much duty as my mother showed To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge that I may profess Due to the Moor my lord. 

Haply for I am black, And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have; or for I am declined Into the vale of years-yet that’s not much- She’s gone. I am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad And live upon the vapor of a dungeon Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses. Yet ’tis the plague of great ones; Prerogatived are they less than the base. ‘Tis destiny unshunnable, like death. 

Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well, Of one not easily jealous but, being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme; of one whose hand, Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes, Albeit unused to the melting mood, Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their medicinable gum. Set you down this, And say besides that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took by th’ throat the circumcised dog And smote him thus. 

O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep. 

I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.(IAGO,ActI,SceneI) 

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. 

When Caesar says, ‘Do this’, it is performed. 

Well, honor is the subject of my story. 

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

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

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

A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear 

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

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

Silence is the perfect herald of joy. 

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

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. 

…lest too light winning make the prize light. 

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

Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men? 

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

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

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. 

Love laughs at locksmiths. 

I am that merry wanderer of the night. 

Let each man do his best. 

A right judgment draws us a profit from all things we see . 

O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors. 

Your praises will become your wages. 

I always feel happy, you know why? Because I do’ expect anything from anyone. Expectations always hurt. Life is short, so love your life, be happy and keep smiling. 

Against love’s fire fear`s frost hath dissolution 

Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth 

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies 

If they love they know not why, they hate upon no better ground, they hate upon no better a ground 

If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark 

If love be blind, it best agrees with night 

But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise 

Be like you thought our love would last too long, if it were chain’d together 

And ruin`d love when it is built anew, grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater 

Alas, their love may be call’d appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate 

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye 

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long 

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity 

The chameleon Love can feed on the air 

She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared 

My love admits no qualifying dross 

O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn’d a heaven unto hell 

Love`s reason`s without reason 

Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scourg’d with rods, Nettled and stung with pismires[nettles], when I hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. 

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold 

Methought I was enamour’d of an ass. 

In the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear! 

Be as thou wast wont to be. See as thou wast wont to see. 

Come give us a taste of your quality. 

Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light 

Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. 

Men at some time are masters of their fates… 

There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with’t 

Let every man be master of his time. 

The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law. – Romeo 

Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful I take up what’s cast away. Gods, gods! ’tis strange that from their cold’st neglect My love should kindle to inflamed respect. Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Can buy this unprized precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: Thou losest here, a better where to find. 

O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason ! 

Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey’d; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen. 

For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made ’em. 

In nature there’s no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind. 

You’re in love? Out Out of love? I love someone. She doesn’t love me. 

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. 

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nick-name God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath made me mad. 

All dark and comfortless. 

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart? 

This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it. 

More of your conversation would infect my brain. 

There is nothing in the world so much like prayer as music is. ~William Shakespeare 

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds? 

Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men’s lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me. 

I would not wish any companion in the world but you. 

though I be but the prince of Wales, yet I am king of courtesy 

What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. 

My love is thine to teach; teach it but how, And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn. Any hard lesson that may do thee good. 

Be not afraid of greatness. 

When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on. What cannot be preserved when fortune takes, Patience her injury a mockery makes. The robb’d that smiles steals something for the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. 

Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor. 

Society is no comfort, to one not sociable. 

Suit the action to the word : the word to the action : with this special observance that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature. 

He was not so much brain as earwax 

For there was never yet philosoper That could endure the toothache patiently, However they have writ the style of gods, And made a push at chance and sufferance. 

Coins always make sound but currency notes are always silent, so when ever your value increases keep yourself calm and silent. 

Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles. 

O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! 

I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, My legs are longer though, to run away. 

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere. 

Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows. 

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep. 

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts… 

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed. 

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it. 

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes-and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s. 

Mercutio: “If love be rough with you, be rough with love; 

They met so near with their lips that their breaths embraced together. 

Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever 

For to be wise and love exceeds man’s might. 

Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity. 

JAQUES: Rosalind is your love’s name? ORLANDO: Yes, just. JAQUES: I do not like her name. ORLANDO: There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened. 

For she had eyes and chose me. 

As merry as the day is long. 

What light through yonder window breaks? 

The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne, Burnt on the water. 

Of one that lov’d not wisely but too well. 

Women may fail when there is no strength in man 

My stars shine darkly over me 

Hang there like a fruit, my soul, Till the tree die! -Posthumus Leonatus Act V, Scene V 

Take pains. Be perfect. 

Now my charms are all o’erthrown, And what strength I have’s mine own, – Which is most faint: now, ’tis true, I must be here confined by you… But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands: Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please: now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; And my ending is despair, Unless I be relieved by prayer, Which pierces so, that it assaults Mercy itself, and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free. 

Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe 

Have more than you show, Speak less than you know. 

Suffer love! A good ephitet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will. 

I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest. 

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

You have witchcraft in your lips, there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs. 

For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done. 

What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind. 

What’s gone, and what’s past help, Should be past grief. 

O, call back yesterday, bid time return 

Nothing ‘gainst Times scythe can make defence. 

Ruin has taught me to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 

Short time seems long in sorrow’s sharp sustaining. 

The extreme parts of time extremely forms all causes to the purpose of his speed. 

The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right! 

The whirligig of time brings in his revenges. 

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour’d As fast as they are made, forgot as soon as done. 

Time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arm outstretch’d, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer. 

Time’s the king of men; he’s both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave. 

Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends. 

Time … thou ceaseless lackey to eternity. 

Time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will. 

Make use of time, let not advantage slip. 

Let’s take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time Steals ere we can effect them. 

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock: Thus we may see,” quoth he, “how the world wags.” 

Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. 

Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try. 

There’s a time for all things. 

The time is out of joint. 

Time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop. 

See the minutes, how they run, How many make the hour full complete; How many hours bring about the day; How many days will finish up the year; How many years a mortal man may live. 

So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate. 

Minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass’d over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this! 

We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun. 

Beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. 

The end crowns all, And that old common arbitrator, Time, Will one day end it. 

Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 

Make use of time, let not advantage slip; Beauty within itself should not be wasted: Fair flowers that are not gather’d in their prime Rot and consume themselves in little time. 

Yet, do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young. 

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow. 

Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time. 

We have seen better days. 

Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; for in my youth I never did apply hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; and did not, with unbashful forehead, woo the means of weakness and debility: therefore my age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly. 

My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly. 

Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short; youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and age is tame. 

I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have. 

Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity? 

Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age? 

Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak. 

Much rain wears the marble. 

Time’s glory is to command contending kings, To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light. 

Men at sometime are the masters of their fate. 

Grace and remembrance be to you both. 

Honor, riches, marriage-blessing Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you! 

Heaven give you many, many merry days. 

Now join hands, and with your hands your hearts. 

A friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have become, and still, gently allows you to grow. 

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee. 

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. 

Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice To change true rules for odd inventions. 

At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows. 

You must not think That we are made of stuff so fat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger And think it pastime. 

O, the blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare! 

The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. 

Why, courage then! what cannot be avoided ‘Twere childish weakness to lament or fear. 

We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we’ll not fail. 

By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endeavour for defence; For courage mounteth with occasion. 

He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion. 

The thing of courage As rous’d with rage doth sympathise, And, with an accent tun’d in self-same key, Retorts to chiding fortune. 

And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings. 

But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? 

But I will be, A bridegroom in my death, and run into’t As to a lover’s bed. 

Experience is by industry achieved, And perfected by the swift course of time. 

Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed. 

Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? 

What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood Is there not rain enough in the sweet heaves To wash it white as snow? 

I pardon him, as God shall pardon me. 

At once, good night- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once. 

Look, the world’s comforter, with weary gait, His day’s hot task hath ended in the west: The owl, night’s herald, shrieks-’tis very late; The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest; And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven’s light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night. 

Danger knows full well that Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter”d in one day, and I the elder and more terrible. 

People’s good deeds we write in water. The evil deeds are etched in brass. 

Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep. Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come when you do call for them? 

Whereof whats past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge. 

Things won are done, joys soul lies in the doing. 

Man, proud man, Dressed in a little brief authority. 

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 thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, This was a man! 

The first thing we do, lets kill all the lawyers. 

Suit the action to the world, the world to the action, with this special observance, that you overstep not the modesty of nature. 

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you – tripping on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as Leif the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and as I may say, the whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. 

I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the Countercheck Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. 

This is the excellent foppery of the world: that when we are sick in fortune – often the surfeits of our own behavior – we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and stars, as if we were villains on necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance, drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence. An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition on the charge of a star! 

To me, fair friend, you never can be old. For as you were when first your eye I eyed. Such seems your beauty still. 

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, action nor utterance, nor the power of speech, to stir men’s blood. I only speak right on. I tell you that which you yourselves do know. 

When valor preys on reason, It eats the sword it fights with: I will seek Some way to leave him. 

To fear the worst oft cures the worse. 

Your old virginity is like one of our French withered pears: it looks ill, it eats dryly. 

And I did laugh sans intermission an hour by his dial. O noble fool, a worthy fool – motley’s the only wear. 

My crown is in my heart, not on my head, Nor decked with diamonds and Indian stones, Nor to be seen: My crown is called content: A crown it is, that seldom kings enjoy. 

You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch, therefore bear you the lantern. 

Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood. 

When rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will. 

Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much; such men are dangerous. 

But I will be a bridegroom in my death, and run into a lover’s bed. 

All that live must die, passing through nature to eternity. 

The undiscovered country form whose born no traveler returns. 

I did send to you for certain sums of gold, which you denied me. 

For nothing can seem foul to those that win. 

This is the monstrosity in love, lady, that the will is infinite and the execution confined; that the desire is boundless, and the act a slave to limit. 

Let me have men about me that are fat, sleek-headed men and such as sleep a-nights. Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous. 

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life, is rounded with a sleep. 

Thought are but dreams till their effects are tried. 

For ‘Tis the sport to have the engineer hoisted with his own petard. 

For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. 

But, good my brother, do not, as some ungracious pastors do. Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven whilst like a puffed and reckless libertine himself the primrose path of dalliance treads and recks not his own rede. 

The devil can site scripture for his own purpose! An evil soul producing holy witness is like a villain with a smiling cheek. 

The devil has the power to assume a pleasing shape. 

But then I sigh, and with a piece of scripture, Tell them that God bids us do good for evil. And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stolen forth of holy writ, And seem I a saint, when most I play the Devil. 

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born Or durst inhabit on a living brow;… 

God had given you one face, and you make yourself another. 

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 

He does me double wrong That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. 

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

There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound by shallows and in misery. 

The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel, but do not dull thy palm with entertainment of each new-hatched unfledged comrade. 

How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good dead in a naughty world. 

I hate ingratitude more in a person; than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, or, any taint of vice whose strong corruption inhabits our frail blood. 

In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. 

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form. Then have I reason to be fond of grief. 

The voluntary path to cheerfulness, if our spontaneous be lost, is to sit up cheerfully, and act and speak as if cheerfulness wee already there. To feel brave, act as if we were brave, use all our will to that end, and courage will very likely replace fear. If we act as if from some better feeling, the bad feeling soon folds its tent like an Arab and silently steals away. 

Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way awhile and let it waste. 

Thou art all ice. Thy kindness freezes. 

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted. 

Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts. 

…the honour of a maid is her name; and no legacy is so rich as honesty. 

But Why should honor outlive honesty? 

So did this horse excel a common one In shape, in courage, color, pace and bone… What a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 

We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. 

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. Where be your jibes now, your gambols, your songs, your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? 

O, but 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; 

I stalk about her door like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for wattage. 

Time is the justice that examines all offenders. 

Own more than thou showest, speak less than thou knowest. 

Come, let’s have one other gaudy night. Call to me. All my sad captains. Fill our bowls once more. Let’s mock the midnight bell. 

The first thing we do, lets kill the lawyers. 

Simply the thing I am shall make me live. 

Angels and ministers of grace defend us. Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee. 

O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal; God forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain: I’ll be damn’d for never a king’s son in Christendom. 

To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days. 

But love is blind, and lovers cannot see What petty follies they themselves commit. 

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love… ‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy; What’s in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet… 

The world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. 

No sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage. 

He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is more than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a man, I am not for him. 

He is half of a blessed man. Left to be finished by such as she; and she a fair divided excellence, whose fullness of perfection lies in him. 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be never so vile. This day shall gentle his condition. And gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day. 

They say men are molded out of faults, and for the most, become much more the better; for being a little bad. 

Men’s faults to themselves seldom appear. 

A miser grows rich by seeming poor. An extravagant man grows poor by seeming rich. 

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? 

Is it not strange that sheep’s guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? 

Nature must obey necessity. 

O comfort-killing Night, image of hell! Dim register and notary of shame! Black stage for tragedies and murders fell! Vast, sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame! Blind, muffled bawd! dark harbor for defame! Grim cave of death! whispering conspirator With close-tongued treason and the ravisher! 

A politician is one that would circumvent God. 

Lord we may know what we are, but know not what we may be. 

There’s not one wise man among twenty will praise himself. 

Tis not the many oaths that make the truth, But the plain single vow that is vowed true. 

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the fraught bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart? 

And where the offence is, let the great axe fall. 

To be or not to be that is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or take up arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing them, end them. 

What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure, he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and god-like reason To fust in us unused. 

Ceremony was but devised at first to set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, recanting goodness, sorry ere ‘Tis shown; but where there is true friendship, there needs none. 

What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? 

O sleep, O gentle sleep, nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down and steep my senses in forgetfulness? 

Methought I heard a voice cry Sleep no more, Macbeth does murder sleep the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast. 

The rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril. 

How excellent it is to have a giant’s strength, but it is tyrannous to use like a giant. 

I do not much dislike the matter, but the manner of his speech. 

Most dangerous is that temptation that doth good us on to sin to loving virtue. 

Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of torrid thunder Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never Remember to have heard. 

O, call back yesterday, bid time return. 

Why so large a cost, having so short a lease, does thou upon your fading mansion spend? 

Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, that this foul deed shall smell above the earth with carrion men, groaning for burial. 

Not that I have the power to clutch my hand When his fair angels would salute by palm, But for my hand, as unattempted yet, Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. 

Good-morrow to thee; welcome: Thou look’st like him that knows a warlike charge: To business that we love we rise betime, And go to’t with delight. 

Much Ado About Nothing. 

I would there were no age between ten and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the anciently, stealing, fighting. 

I”ll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly. 

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty, And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it. 

Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son. – This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till then in patience our proceeding be. 

Let’s choose executors and talk of wills. And yet not so – for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? 

My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night – Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about The other four in wondrous motion. 

O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. 

When we mean to build, We first survey the plot, then draw the model. And when we see the figure of the house, Then must we rate the cost of the erection, Which if we find outweighs ability, What do we then but draw anew the model In fewer offices, or at least desist To build at all? 

Who sets me else? by heaven I’ll throw at all; I have a thousand spirits in one breast, To answer twenty thousand such as you. 

How some men creep in skittish Fortune’s hall, Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes! 

You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! – Infect her beauty, You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, To fall and blister her pride! 

They have tied me to a stake. I cannot fly, But bear-like I must fight the course. 

And in some sort these wants of mine are crowned, That I account them blessings; for by these Shall I try friends. You shall perceive how you Mistake my fortunes; I am wealthy in my friends. 

Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it? Why, every fault’s condemned ere it be done: Mine were the very cipher of a function, To fine the faults whose fine stands in record, And let go by the actor. 

Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind, But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne’er turns the key to th’ poor. 

I will tell you: he beat me grievously, in the shape of a woman; for in the shape of a man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver’s beam, because I know also life is a shuttle. 

God’s soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death: And so his knell is knoll’d. 

The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief, He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. 

The elder of them, being put to nurse, Was by a beggar woman stol’n away And, ignorant of his birth and parentage, Became a bricklayer when he came to age. 

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? 

Swear his thought over By each particular star in heaven and By all their influences, you may as well Forbid the sea for to obey the moon As or by oath remove or counsel shake The fabric of his folly, whose foundation Is piled upon his faith and will continue The standing of his body. 

(Baptista:) Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute? (Hortensio:) Why, no, for she hath broke the lute to me. 

I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness, Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy; I have sworn thee fair. 

See, your guests approach. Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, And let’s be red with mirth. 

Heaven’s face does glow, And this solidarity and compound mass, With heated visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act. 

I, I, I myself, sometimes, leaving she fear of heaven on the left hand, and hiding mine honor in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch. 

I will say of it, It tutors nature. Artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than life. 

The brain of this foolish compounded clay-man is not able to invent anything that intends to laughter more that I invent or is invented on me. 

Her eye in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright, That birds would sing, and think it were not night. 

Plague on’t, an I thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence. I’d have seen him damned ere I’d have challenged him. 

Make me to see’t; or at the least so prove it That the probation bear no hinge nor loop To hang a doubt on – or woe upon thy life! 

To that dauntless temper of his mind he hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor to act in safety. 

If I depart from thee, I cannot live; And in thy sight to die, what were it else But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap? To die by thee were but to die in jest; From thee to die were torture more than death. 

Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true, If heaven would make me such another world Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, I’ld not have sold her for it. 

The urging of that word ‘judgment’ hath bred a kind of remorse in me. 

O, he sits high in all the people’s hearts: And that, which would appear offence in us, His countenance, like richest alchymy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. 

Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs! Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen, Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends Do glue themselves in sociable grief, Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity. 

If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down. 

Why, now I see there’s mettle in thee; and even from this instant do build on thee a better opinion than ever before. 

I know you wise, but yet no farther wise Than Harry Percy’s wife; constant you are, But yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer, for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know, And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate. 

Alas, poor man! Grief has so wrought on him He takes false shadows for true substances. 

Women are angels, wooing: Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing: That she beloved knows naught, that knows not this – Men prize the thing ungained more than it is. 

Which to believe of her must be a faith that reason without miracle shall never plant in me. 

Being once chafed, he cannot Be reigned again to temperance; then he speaks What’s in his heart, and that is there which looks With us to break his neck. 

Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate. 

Ceremony was but devis’d at first To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown. 

Such an act, that blurs the grace and blush of modesty; calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose from the fair forehead of an innocent love, and sets a blister there. 

The eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other things. 

He that doth the ravens feed, Yea, providently caters for the sparrow. 

Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale; who committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven. 

The king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temp’rance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them, but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting in many ways. 

Will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see She is your treasure, she must have a husband; I must dance barefoot on her wedding-day, And for your love to her lead apes in hell. 

The general’s disdained By him one step below, he by the next, The next by him beneath; so every step, Exampled by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation: And ’tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot, Not her own sinews. 

(Leonato:) You will never run mad, niece. (Beatrice:) No, not till a hot January. 

Dear Isabel, I have a motion which imports your good, Whereto if you’ll a willing ear incline, What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine. So, bring us to our palace, where we’ll show What’s yet behind, that’s meet you all should know. 

A maiden never bold; of spirit so still and quiet that her motion blushed at herself. 

If I can fasten but one cup upon him, With that which he hath drunk to-night already, He’ll be as full of quarrel and offense As my young mistress’ dog. 

I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing, Such precious deeds in one that promised naught But beggary and poor looks. 

A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigged, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats Instinctively have quit it. 

I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have riv’d the knotty oaks, and I have seen The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threat’ning clouds But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 

That we would do We should do when we would, for this ‘would’ changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents, And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh, That hurts by easing. 

Henry will to himself Protector be; and God shall be my hope, My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet. 

Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw doth pierce it. 

Your face, my Thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue; look like th’ innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t. 

Thou rememb’rest Since once I sat upon a promontory And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin’s back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath That the rude sea grew civil at her song, And certain stars shot madly from their spheres To hear the sea-maid’s music. 

How pregnant, sometimes, his replies are! A happiness that often madness hits on, Which sanity and reason could not be So prosp’rously deliv’r’d of. 

Then, my queen, in silence sad Trip we after night’s shade. We the globe can compass soon, Swifter than the wand’ring moon. 

If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman well-reputed, Cato’s daughter. 

But to my mind, though I am native here And to the manner born, it is a custom More honored in the breach than the observance. 

Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible, Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. 

I grant you, friends, if you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us; but I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any suckling dove; I will roar you an ’twere any nightingale. 

I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. 

And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her; And, where I thought the remnant of mine age Should have been cherished by her childlike duty, I now am full resolved to take a wife And turn her out to who will take her in. 

It is religion to be thus forsworn, For charity itself fulfills the law And who can never love from charity? 

O theft most base, that we have stolen what we do fear to keep! 

Art thou a woman’s son, and canst not feel What ’tis to love? How want of love tormenteth? 

Virtue preserv’d from fell destruction’s blast, Led on by heaven, and crown’d with joy at last. 

Fall to them, as you find your stomach serves you: No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en;- In brief, sir, study what you most affect. 

Make use of time, let not advantage slip; Beauty within itself should not be wasted. Fair flowers that are not gath’red in their prime Rot and consume themselves in little time. 

He hath no friends but what are friends for fear; Which, in his dearest need, will fly from him. 

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which, as they kiss, consume. 

O constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain ‘tween my heart and tongue! I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might. 

And now, my honey love, Will we return unto thy father’s house And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats and caps and golden rings, With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things; With scarfs and fans and double change of brav’ry, With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knav’ry. 

Besides, they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us all, admonishing That we should drew us fairly for our end. 

It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, would she say? 

Why, Hal, ’tis my vocation, Hal. ‘Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation. 

This is an art which does mend nature, – change it rather; but the art itself is nature. 

Whatever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake Let’s yet be fellows; let’s shake our heads and say, As ’twere a knell unto our master’s fortunes, ‘We have seen better days. 

A hundred thousand welcomes: I could weep, And I could laugh; I am light and heavy: Welcome. 

Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man? Ay, a tailor, sir; a stone-cutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the trade. 

O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed. 

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

Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career Of laughter with a sigh? 

With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt. 

(Pandarus:) Be moderate, be moderate. (Cressida:) Why tell you me of moderation? The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, And violenteth in a sense as strong As that which causeth it. How can I moderate it? 

Now we sit close about this taper here And call in question our necessities. 

Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself, And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear That thou are crowned, not that I am dead. 

This avarice Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been The sword of our slain kings. 

Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair, Our ranks are broke and ruin follows us. 

Watch thou, and wake when others be asleep, to pry into the secrets of the state. 

His life is parallel’d E’en with the stroke and line of his great justice; He doth with holy abstinence subdue That in himself which he spurs on his power To qualify in others. 

The higher Nilus swells, The more it promises; as it ebbs, the seedsman Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain, And shortly comes the harvest. 

There’s such divinity doth hedge a king That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will. 

O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip. 

Cowards father cowards and base things sire base; Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. 

If she do frown, ’tis not in hate of you, But rather to beget more love in you: If she do chide, ’tis not to have you gone; For why, the fools are mad if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; For – get you gone – she doth not mean – away. 

To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often, to our comfort, shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-winged eagle. 

I am a gentleman. I’ll be sworn thou art; Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions and spirit, Do give thee five-fold blazon. 

Out alas! she’s cold, Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 

The greater cantle of the world is lost With very ignorance; we have kissed away Kingdoms and provinces. 

To leave this keen encounter of our wits, and fall somewhat into a slower method. 

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the fear’d. 

O heavens! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolutions of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, (Weary of solid firmness,) melt itself Into the sea. 

Now spurs the lated traveler apace To gain the timely inn. 

Yon gray lines that fret the clouds are messengers of day. 

And if the boy have not a woman’s gift To rain a shower of commanded tears, An onion will do well for such a shift, Which in a napkin being close conveyed Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. 

No. Leonato, I never tempted her with word too large, But, as brother to his sister, showed Bashful sincerity and comely love. 

But whether unripe years did want conceit, Or he refused to take her figured proffer, The tender nibbler would not touch the bait, But smile and jest at every gentle offer. 

This is the very coinage of your brain. This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in. 

For aught I see, they are as sick, that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing; it is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. 

Divinely bent to meditation; And in no worldly suits would he be mov’d, To draw him from his holy exercise. 

Heaven doth divide The state of man in divers functions, Setting endeavour in continual motion; To which is fix’d, as an aim or butt, Obedience. 

My mind gave me, In seeking tales and informations Against this man, whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at, Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye! 

Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality. 

He was a wise fellow, and had good discretion, that, being bid to ask what he would of the king, desired he might know none of his secrets. 

As far as could ken thy chalky cliffs, When from thy shore the tempest beat us back, I stood upon the hatches in the storm, And when the dusky sky began to rob My earnest-gaping sight of thy land’s view, I took a costly jewel from my neck, A heart it was, bound in with diamonds, And threw it toward thy land. 

I cannot bid you bid my daughter live – That were impossible; but I pray you both, Possess the people in Messina here How innocent she died; and if your love Can labor aught in sad invention, Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb, And sing it to her bones – sing it to-night. 

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. 

(Second Fisherman:) Canst thou catch any fishes then? (Pericles:) I never practiced it. (Second Fisherman:) Nay, then thou wilt starve sure; for here’s nothing to be got nowadays unless thou canst fish for ‘t. 

Thou hast stolen both mine office and my name; The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame. 

What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fishlike smell; a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish! 

Defect of manners, want of government, Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain; The least of which, haunting a nobleman, Loseth men’s hearts, and leaves behind a stain Upon the beauty of all parts besides; Beguiling them of commendation. 

No blame to be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. 

If he be so resolved, I can o’ersway him; for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betrayed with trees And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. 

God mark thee to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nursed. An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish. 

Though mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust, yet reverence, That angel of the world, doth make distinction Of place ‘tween high and low. 

There are a kind of men so loose of soul, That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs. 

Ah, Buckingham, now do I play the touch, To try if thou be current gold indeed: Young Edward lives. 

Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. 

Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail their loss But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. 

Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book. He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink. His intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. 

No, madame, ’tis not so well that I am poor; though many of the rich are damned. 

Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears. If the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs. 

Some sins do bear their privilege on earth, And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly. 

You thus employed, I will go root away The noisome weeds which without profit suck The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers. 

She hath made me four and twenty nosegays for the shearers – three-man songmen all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and bases, but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. 

Either our history shall with full mouth Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave, Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth, Not worshipped with a waxen epitaph. 

When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows! 

No, no, he cannot long hold out these pangs. The incessant care and labor of his mind Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in So thin that life looks through and will break out. 

Now, ye familiar spirits that are culled Out of the powerful legions under earth, Help me this once, that France may get the field. 

I will be gone, That pitiful rumor may report my flight To consolate thine ear. 

They are the books, the arts, the academies, that show, contain, and nourish all the world. 

A lioness with udders all drawn dry, Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, When that the sleeping man should stir; for ’tis The royal disposition of that beast To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead. 

So call the field to rest, and let’s away To part the glories of this happy day. 

Lady, you are the cruell’st she alive If you will these graces to the grave, And leave the world no copy. 

Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. 

If she deny to wed I’ll crave the day When I shall ask the banns, and when be married. 

His nature is too noble for the world. He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove for’s power to thunder. 

Thou wrong’st a gentleman who is as far from thy report as thou from honor. 

Now for the bare-picked bone of majesty Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace. 

Then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honeydew Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d. 

I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne, To leave this keen encounter of our wits And fall something into a slower method – Is not the causer of the timeless deaths Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, As blameful as the executioner? 

A thousand hearts are great within my bosom: Advance our standards, set upon our foes; Our ancient word of courage, fair St. George, Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons! Upon them! Victory sits upon our helms. 

Light seeking light doth light of light beguile; So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. 

Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, Smarting in ling’ring pickle. 

He will lie, sir, with such volubility that you would think truth were a fool; drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk, and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bedclothes about him; but they know his conditions and lay him in straw. 

Epicurean cooks Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite, That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honor Evan till a Lethe’d dulness 

O my good lord, At many times I brought in my accounts, Laid them before you. You would throw them off And say you found them in mine honesty. 

Hast thou not learn’d me how To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections? 

My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered, And then all this thou seest is but a clod And module of confounded royalty. 

That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack, when it begins to rain, And leave thee in a storm. 

What, man! more water glideth by the mill That wots the miller of; and easy it is Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know: Though Bassianus be the emperor’s brother, Better then he have worn Vulcan’s badge. 

Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou are not conquered. Beauty’s ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death’s pale flag is not advanced there. 

Thou art a traitor, and a miscreant; Too good to be so, and too bad to live. 

I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond. Thou hast the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance. 

Nay, then, thus: We came into the world like brother and brother; And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another. 

Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass. 

It eases some, though none it ever cured, to think their sorrows others have endured. 

I dreamt my lady came and found me dead, (Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think), And breath’d such life with kisses in my lips That I reviv’d and was an emperor. 

Not a mouse Shall disturb this hallowed house. I am sent, with broom, before, To sweep the dust behind the door. 

And, like a strutting player, whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound ‘Twixt his stretch footing and the scaffoldage, Such to-be-pitied and o’er-wrested seeming He acts thy greatness in;… 

I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender. More than my all is nothing; nor my prayers Are not words holy hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return. 

Tis very true: my grief lies all within; And these external manners of laments Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul. 

The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foiled, Is from the book of honor rased quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toiled. 

Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on. 

This duke as much They love and dote on, call him bounteous Buckingham The mirror of all courtesy 

O, that the slave had forty thousand lives; One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. 

What man dare, I dare. Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The armed rhinoceros, or th’ Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble. 

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind: So flewed, so sanded, and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew; Crook-kneed, and dewlapped like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells, Each under each. 

Who alone suffers suffers most i’ th’ mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind; But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. 

What I should say My tears gainsay; for every word I speak, Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes. 

O Cressida, but that the busy day, Waked by the lark, hath roused the ribald crows, And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer, I would not from thee. 

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. I am no orator, as Brutus is, But (as you know me all) a plain blunt man That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. 

Appear thou in the likeness of sigh; Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied! Cry but ‘Ay me! pronounce but ‘love’ and ‘dove’: Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, One nickname for her purblind son and heir Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so true When King Cophetus loved the beggar maid! 

Grief hath two tongues; and never woman yet Could rule them both without ten women’s wit. 

Now by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear; my true lip hath virgined it ever since. 

Say that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart: Write till your ink be dry and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line, That may discover such integrity. 

They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. 

But to confound such time That drums him from his sport and speaks as loud As his own state and ours, ’tis to be chid As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge, Pawn their experience to the present pleasure And so rebel to judgment. 

Sir, I shall not be slack, in sign whereof, Please ye we may convive this afternoon And quaff carouses to our mistress’s health, And do as adversaries do in law, Strive mightily but eat and drink as friends. 

The weary sun hath made a golden set And by the bright tract of his fiery car Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow. 

O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble like aspen leafs upon a lute And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touched them for his life. 

Come the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock them. Naught shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true. 

Therefore to’s seemeth it a needful course, Before we enter his forbidden gates, To know his pleasure; and in that behalf; Bold of your worthiness, we single you As our best-moving fair solicitor. 

A league from Epidamnum had we sailed Before the always wind-obeying deep Gave any tragic instance of our harm. 

Things at the worst will cease, or e’en climb upward To what they were before. 

And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to scape the serpent’s tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call. So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends. 

O, break, my heart! poor bankrout, break at once! To prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here, And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! 

Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews; Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones; Make tigers tame and huge leviathans Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. 

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! 

Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school: and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used, and, contrary to the king, his crown and dignity, thou hast built a paper mill. 

(Andrew:) I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest? (Maria:) A dry jest, sir. (Andrew:) Are you full of them? (Maria:) Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends. Marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren. 

Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. 

You gave with them words of so sweet breath composed, as made the things more rich. 

O thou who dost inhabit in my breast; Leave not the mansion so long tenantless; Lest growing ruinous the building fall, And leave no memory of what it was. 

Here’s that which is too weak to be a sinner: Honest water, which ne’er left man i’ th’ mire. 

Here beauty hangs upon the cheek of night, Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear. 

O God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea! 

And let their heirs (God, if thy will be so) Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace, With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days! 

No, so God help me, they spake not a word, But, like dumb statues or breathing stones, Stared each on other, and looked deadly pale. 

(Cornwall:) Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man? (Kent:) A tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could not have made him ill, though they had been but two years o’ th’ trade. 

Certain it is that he will steal himself into a man’s favor, and for a week escape a great deal of discoveries; but when you find him out, you have him even after. 

Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer’s death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o’ th’ season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature’s bastards. 

Ladies, a general welcome from his grace Salutes ye all. This night he dedicates To fair content, and you. None here, he hopes, In all this noble bevy, has brought with her One care abroad. He would have all as merry As first, good company, good wine, good welcome Can make good people. 

O, I have passed a miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night Though ’twere to buy a world of happy days – So full of dismal terror was the time. 

Art thou so bare, and full of wretchedness, And fear’st to die? famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes, Content and beggary hang upon thy back, The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law. 

What fate imposes, men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide. 

Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory, My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear. 

Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends And give your hearts to, when they once perceive The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye. never found again But where they mean to sink ye. 

All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel; Then all afire with me the King’s son Ferdinand, With hair up-standing (then liek reeds, not hair), Was the first man that leapt; cried ‘Hell is empty, And all the devils are here! 

Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. 

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse. 

O heaven, that such companions thou ‘ldst unfold, and put in every honest hand a whip to lash the rascals naked through the world. 

Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mocked himself and scorned his spirit That could be moved to smile at anything. 

Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin; For to deny each article with oath Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. 

You would play upon me, you would seem to know my stops, you would pluck out the heart of my mystery, you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 

So study evermore is overshot. While it doth study to have what it would, It doth forget to do the thing it should; And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, ‘Tis won as towns with fire; so won, so lost. 

O, such a day, So fought, so followed, and so fairly won, Came not till now to dignify the times Since Caesar’s fortunes! 

Within this wall of flesh There is a soul counts thee her creditor, And with advantage means to pay thy love; And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. 

To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day. All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine. 

If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them… I am no true man. 

No marvel, an it like your majesty, My Lord Protector’s hawks do tower so well; They know their master loves to be aloft And bears his thoughts above his falcon’s pitch. 

Good den, Sir Richard!’-‘God-a-mercy, fellow’- And if his name be George, I’ll call him Peter, For new-made honor doth forget men’s names; ‘Tis too respective and too sociable For your conversion. 

But, alas, to make me A fixed figure for the time of scorn To point his slow unmoving finger at! 

Danger knows full well, That Caesar is more dangerous than he: We are two lions litter’d in one day, And I the elder and more terrible. 

When the splitting wind makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks. 

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear – Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! 

When holy and devout religious men Are at their beads, ’tis much to draw them thence, So sweet is zealous contemplation. 

The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he; His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be. 

How this grace Speaks his own standing! What a mental power This eye shoots forth! How big imagination Moves in this lip! To the dumbness of the gesture One might interpret. 

Open your ears, for which of you will stop The vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks? I, from the orient to the drooping west, Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold The acts commenced on this ball of earth. 

In his livery Walk’d crowns and crownets; realms and islands were As plates dropp’d from his pocket. 

Why, now blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. 

Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man’s tongue shakes out his master’s undoing. 

Jumping o’er times, Turning the accomplishment of many years Into an hourglass. 

Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers, lacking – God warn us! – matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss. 

The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes; And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day. 

I take to-day a wife, and my election Is led on in the conduct of my will – My will enkindled my by mine and ears Two traded pilots ‘twixt the dangerous shores Of will and judgment. 

Every wretch, pining and pale before Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks: A largess universal, like the sun, His liberal eye doth give to every one, Thawing cold fear. 

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give: The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 

I have a letter from her Of such contents as you will wonder at, The mirth whereof so larded with my matter That neither singly can be manifested Without the show of both, wherein fat Falstaff Hath a great scene. 

Such a nature, Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon. 

Call you that backing of friends? A plague upon such backing! Give me them that will face me. 

Outside or inside, I will not return Till my attempt so much be glorified As to my ample hope was promised Before I drew this gallant head of war, And culled there fiery spirits from the world, To outlook conquest and to win renown Even in the jaws of danger and of death. 

Besides, he tells me that if peradventure He speak against me on the adverse side, I should not think it strange, for ’tis a physic That’s bitter to sweet end. 

These lies are like their father that begets them – gross as a mountain, open, palpable. 

Slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue Out-venoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world: kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters. 

Away, and mock the time with fairest show; False face must hide what the false heart doth khow. 

We still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together; And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans, Still we went coupled and inseparable. 

But this rough magic There abjure; and when I have required Some heavenly music (which even now I do) To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book. 

When last the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promise to return again Within a hour; and pacing through the forest, Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, Lo, what befell! 

If you mean well, Now go with me and with this holy man Into the chantry by. There, before him, And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith, That most jealous and too doubtful soul May live in peace. 

He covets less Than misery itself would give; rewards His deeds with doing them; and is content To spend the time to end it. 

… or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words – comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. 

O heaven, were man But constant, he were perfect! That one error Fills him with faults, makes him run through all th’ sins; Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. 

The devil shall have his bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs – he will give the devil his due. 

He doth entreat your grace, my noble lord, To visit him to-morrow or next day: He is within, with two right reverend fathers, Divinely bent to meditation, And in no worldly suits would he be moved To draw him from his holy exercise. 

If our betters play at that game, we must not dare To imitate them; faults that are rich are fair. 

He hath achieved a maid That paragons description and wild fame; One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, And in th’ essential vesture of creation Does tire the ingener. 

Look here upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. 

It is a great sin to swear unto a sin, But greater sin to keep a sinful oath. 

Tut, tut, my lord! we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers. Be assured: We go to use our hands, and not our tongues. 

Had doting Priam checked his son’s desire, Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire. 

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

Happily he is the second time come to them for they say an old man is twice a child. 

No, but the barber’s man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of this cheek hath already stuffed tennis balls. 

Larded all with sweet flowers which bewept to the grave did go, with true-love showers. 

By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers Armed in proof and led by shallow Richmond. 

Be absolute for death: either death or life Shall thereby be the sweeter. 

They say be parted well and paid his score, And so, God be with him. 

I am a subject, And I challenge law. Attorneys are denied me, And therefore personally I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent. 

I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. 

And frame your mind to mirth and merrimnent, Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life. 

In God’s name cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war. 

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream; Brief as the lightning in the collied night That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say Behold! The jaws of darkness do devour it up. 

O, know, sweet love, I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument; So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told. 

The night of sorrow now is turned to day: Her two blue windows faintly she upheaveth, Like the fair sun when in his fresh array He cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth; And as the bright sun glorifies the sky, So is her face illumined with her eye;… 

O villainous! I have looked upon the world for four times seven years; and since I could distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself. 

This apoplexy, as I take it, is a kind of lethargy, an’t please your lordship, a kind of sleeping in the blood, a whoreson tingling. 

You’ld be so lean that blasts of January Would blow you through and through. 

Were never four such lamps together mixed, Had not his clouded with his brow’s repine; But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light, Shone like the moon in water seen by night. 

I prythee, take the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings. 

See how the morning opes her golden gates And takes her farewell of the glorious sun. How well resembles it the prime of youth Trimmed like a younker prancing to his love. 

What, will the line stretch out to th’ crack of doom? 

I to myself am dearer than a friend, For love is still most precious in itself, And Sylvia – witness heaven that made her fair! – Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. 

Who shall be true to us, when we are so unsecret to ourselves? 

Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt, And very seamark of my utmost sail: Do you go back dismayed? 

The red wine first must rise In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have ’em Talk us to silence. 

If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em. 

No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the emnity o’ th’ air, To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, Necessity’s sharp pinch. 

No ceremony that to great ones belongs, – not the king’s crown nor the deputed sword, the marshal’s truncheon nor the judge’s robe, become them with one half so good a grace as mercy does. 

This tyrant, whole sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest; you have loved him well; He hath not touched you yet. 

When law can do no right, Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong. 

O, I cry your mercy; There is my purse, to cure that blow of thine. 

Know’st thou not any whom corrupting gold Will tempt unto a close exploit of death? 

I must, forsooth, be forced To give my hand opposed against my heart Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen, Who wooed in haste and means to wed at leisure. 

It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear; nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree. 

But ’tis a common proof That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, Whereto the climber upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend. 

Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk! When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it was too small a bound; But now two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough. 

Let me wipe off this honorable dew, that silverly doth progress on thy cheeks. 

Oh, break, my heart! poor bankrupt, break at once! To prison, eyes, ne’er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here; And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! 

Oh, that estates, degrees, and offices were not derived corruptly, and that clear honor were purchased by the merit of the wearer! 

For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. 

But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, ‘Help me, Cassius, or I sink! 

Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show; But wonder on, till truth make all things plain. 

There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou cam’st not of the blood royal if thou darest not stand for ten shillings. 

She bears a duke’s revenues on her back, And in her heart she scorns our poverty. 

Neither a borrower nor a lender be, For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulleth edge of husbandry. 

Who should be trusted, when one’s right hand Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, But count the world a stranger for thy sake. The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst, ‘Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst! 

The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sagg with doubt, nor shake with fear. 

For even to vice They are not constant, but are changing still One vice but of a minute old for one Not half so old as that. 

Blessed are those whose blood and judgment are so well commingled that they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger to sound what stop she please. 

Keep you in the rear of your affection, out of the shot and danger of desire. 

How dare the plants look up to heaven, from whence They have their nourishment? 

The spirit that I have seen May be a devil, and the devil hath power T’ assume a pleasing shape, yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me. 

He must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil. 

You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, Whose valor plucks dead lions by the beard. 

Consideration, like an angel came And whipp’d the offending Adam out of him, Leaving his body as a paradise To envelope and contain celestial spirits. 

That’s a deep story of a deeper love, For he was more than over shoes in love. 

How in one house Should many people, under two commands, Hold amity? ‘Tis hard, almost impossible. 

I pull in resolution, and begin To doubt th’ equivocation of the fiend, That lies like truth. 

He will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a color she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. 

There had she not been long but she became A joyful mother of two goodly sons; And, which strange, the one so like the other As could not be distinguished but by names. 

Speak with me, pity me, open the door! A beggar begs that never begged before. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake. ‘Tis true, this god did shake. His coward lips did from their color fly, And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his luster. 

Comets importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars. 

Sir, he made a chimney in my father’s house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it. 

I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a-mornings; they say it will penetrate. 

Let us teach ourselves that honorable step, not to outdo discretion. 

Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, The day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry. 

Thing at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before. 

Give me one kiss, I’ll give it to thee again; And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain. 

And since the quarrel Will bear no color for the thing he is, Fashion it thus: that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities; And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg, Which, hatched, would as his kind grow mischievous, And kill him in the shell. 

Oh, never will I trust to speeches penned!. taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, three-piled hyperboles. 

If it be honor in your wars to seem The same you are not, – which, for your best ends, You adopt your policy – how is it less or worse, That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour, as in war: since that to both It stands in like request? 

A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, Fram’d in the prodigality of nature, Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt right royal; The spacious world cannot again afford. 

Our courteous Antony, Whom ne’er the word of ‘no’ woman heard speak, Being barbered ten times o’er, goes to the feast, And for his ordinary pays his heart For what his eyes eat only. 

He is deformed, crooked, old and sere, Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind, Stigmatical in making, worse in mind. 

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters, sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report. This cannot be cunning in her. If it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove. 

Why, our battalia trebles that account: Besides, the king’s name is a tower of strength, Which they upon the adverse faction want. 

I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at; I am not what I am. 

Friends, I owe more tears to this dead man than you shall see me pay. 

Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all The gift doth stretch itself as ’tis receiv’d, And is enough for both. 

For mine own part, I could be well content To entertain the lag-end of my life With quiet hours, for I do protest I have not sought the day of this dislike. 

The force of his own merit makes his way – a gift that heaven gives for him. 

Give me a staff of honor for mine age, But not a sceptre to control the world. 

He that commends me to mine own content, Commends me to the thing I cannot get. 

Yet ’tis greater skill In a true hate to pray they have their will; The very devils cannot plague them better. 

Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; For ‘get you gone,’ she doth not mean ‘away.’ Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces. That man that hath a tongue, I say is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 

Murther, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. 

Let me have men about me that are fat; sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights; yonder Cassius has a lean and hungry look; he thinks too much; such men are dangerous. 

The robb’d that smiles steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. 

Yet hold I off: women are angels, wooing; Things won are done, joy’s soul lies in the doing. That she beloved knows nought that knows not this: Men prize the thing ungained more than it is: That she was never yet, that ever knew Love got so sweet as when desire did sue. 

Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest. 

Too much to know is to know nought but fame; And every godfather can give a name. 

There is more owing her than is paid, and more shall be paid her than she’ll demand. 

Murder most foul, as in the best it is, But this most foul, strange, and unnatural. 

What are these, So withered and so wild in their attire That took not like th’ inhabitants o’ th’ earth And yet are on’t? 

No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled. 

Think you I bear the shears of destiny? Have I commandment on the pulse of life? 

Wise men sometimes avoid the world: They lose it that do buy it with much care. 

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy, For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. 

She hath prosperous art When she will play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade. 

What should we speak of When we are as old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how In this our pinching cave shall we discourse The freezing hours away? 

At your age, The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble, And waits upon the judgment. 

Fit for the mountains and the barb’rous caves, Where manners ne’er were preach’d. 

Looking on the lines Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreeched, In my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzled Lest if should bite its master and so prove, As ornaments oft do, too dangerous. 

The skies are painted with unnumb’red sparks They are all fire, and every one doth shine; But there’s but one in all doth hold his place. 

Kindness in woman, not their beauteous looks, shall win my love. 

To things a sale a seller’s praise belongs; She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot. 

Sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud: and, after summer evermore succeeds barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: so cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. 

Thy deathbed is no lesser than thy land, Wherein thou liest in reputation sick; And thou, too careless patient as thou art, Committ’st thy anointed body to the cure Of those physicians that first wounded thee. 

He can write and read and cast account. O monstrous! We took him setting of boys’ copies. Here’s a villain. 

And you, enchantment, Worthy enough a herdsman – yea, him too, That makes himself, but for our honor therein, Unworthy thee-if ever henceforth thou These rural latches to his entrance open, Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, I will devise a death as cruel for thee As thou art tender to’t. 

Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone – And yet no farther that a wanton’s bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silken thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. 

Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh. And ’tis no marvel he is so humorous. By’r Lady, he is a good musician. 

He kissed me hard, as though he’d pluck up kisses by the roots that grew upon my lips. 

Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes And interchanged love tokens with my child; Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung With feigning voice verses of feigning love. 

Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders’ books, and defy the foul fiend. 

Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch In the dead waste and middle of the night Been thus encountered. 

See, see what show’rs arise, Blown with windy tempest of my heart Upon thy wounds, that kills mine eye and heart. 

So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench Are from their hives and houses driven away. They called us, for our fierceness, English dogs; Now, like to whelps, we crying run away. 

He is complete in feature and in mind With all good grace to grace a gentlemen. 

So, on your patience evermore attending, New joy wait on you! Here our play has ending. 

But ’tis no matter: better a little chiding than a great deal of heartbreak. 

I do profess to be no less that I seem, to serve him truly that will put me in trust, to love him that is honest, to converse with him that is wise and says little, to fear judgment, to fight when I cannot choose, and to eat no fish. 

If it were now to die, ‘Twere now to be most happy; for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate. 

Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay. Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. 

All this I see; and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion? 

Now out of this nettle, danger, will I pluck the flower, safety. 

We do not act that often jest and laugh; ‘Tis old but true, ‘Still swine eats all the draff. 

If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears, Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. 

Alas, ala: Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once, And He that might the vantage best have took, Found out the remedy. 

(Rosalind:) But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak? (Orlando:) Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. 

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 

The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light. 

Who thinketh to buy villainy with gold, Shall ever find such faith so bought – so sold. 

We have strict statutes and most biting laws, The needful bits and curbs to headstrong jades, Which for this fourteen years we have let slip; Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave, That goes not out to prey. 

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

See the minutes how they run, How many make the hour full complete; How many hours bring about the day; How many days will finish up the year; How many years a mortal man may live. 

No wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. 

Look, here’s the warrant, Claudio, for thy death. ‘Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow Thou must be made immortal. 

If he do, i’ faith, and find anybody in the house, here will be an old abusing of God’s patience and the King’s English. 

What a slave art thou to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! 

Good sirs, take heart: We’ll bury him; and, then, what’s brave, what’s noble, Let’s do’t after the high Roman fashion, And make death proud to take us. 

It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale. 

Last night the very gods showed me a vision – I fast and prayed for their intelligence – thus: I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, winged From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanished in the sunbeams; which portends, Unless my sins abuse my divination, Success to th’ Roman host. 

Give me some music: music, moody food Of us that trade in love. 

I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs. 

I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind; And would my father had left me no more! For all the rest is held at such a rate, As brings a thousandfold more care to keep, Than in possession any jot of pleasure. 

Grief boundeth where it falls, Not with the empty hollowness, but weight. I take my leave before I have begun, For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done. 

Not a courtier, although they wear their faces to the bent of the king’s looks, hath a heart that is not glad at the thing they scowl at. 

So, of his gentleness, Knowing I loved my books, he furnished me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom. 

What work’s, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you. 

What an eye she has! methinks it sounds a parley of provocation. 

My tables – meet it is I set it down That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain. At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark. 

O, they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word; for thou art not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus. Thou art easier swallowed than a flapdragon. 

Why, all the souls that are were forfeit once; And He that might the vantage best have took Found out the remedy. 

Treason is but trusted like the fox; Who, ne’er so tame, so cherished, and lock’d up, Will have a wild trick of his ancestors. 

To bed, to bed; sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses, As infants empty of all thought. 

Banquo, thy soul’s flight, If it find heaven, must find it out to-night. 

It is silliness to live when to live is torment; and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician. 

Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins That the life-weary taker may fall dead, And that the trunk may be discharged of breath As violently as hasty powder fired Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb. 

Schoolmasters will I keep within my house, Fit to instruct her youth. To cunning men I will be very kind, and liberal To mine own children in good bringing up. 

More strange than true, I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. 

Of neither, girl; For if of joy, being altogether wanting, It doth remember me the more of sorrow; Or if of grief, being altogether had, It adds more sorrow to my want of joy; For what I have I need not to repeat, And what I want it boots not to complain. 

How wayward is this foolish love, that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod. 

We cannot hold mortality’s strong hand. Good lords, although my will to give is living, The suit which you demand is gone and dead. He tells us Arthur is deceased to-might. 

You see me here, – a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both! 

Her father loved me, oft invited me; Still questioned me the story of my life From year to year – the battles, sieges, fortunes That I have passed. 

I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. When I bestride him I soar, I am a hawk; he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it. 

The thunder, That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d The name of Prosper; it did bass my trespass. 

Let men say, we be men of good government; being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal. 

He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder. 

This day hath made Much work for tears in many a English mother, Whose sons lie scatter’d on the bleeding ground; Many a widow’s husband grovelling lies, Coldly embracing the discolor’d earth. 

Thou art a slave, whom fortune’s tender arm With favour never clasp’d; but bred a dog. 

But that our feasts In every mess have folly, and the feeders Digest it with a custom, I should blush To see you so attired, swoon, I think, To show myself a glass. 

Death, remembered, should be like a mirror, who tells us life is but a breath; to trust it, error. 

In nature there’s no blemish but the mind; None can be called deformed but the unkind. 

The more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves, more than their even Christian. 

Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls; Conscience is but a work that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe: Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law! 

I am ill at reckoning; it fits the spirit of a tapster. 

To hold you in perpetual amity, To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts With an unslipping knot, take Antony Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims No worse a husband than the best of men; Whose virtue and whose general graces speak That which none else can utter. 

She in beauty, education, blood, Holds hand with any princess of the world. 

Can it be chat modesty may more betray Our sense than woman’s lightness? 

To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience, and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation: To this point I stand, – That both the worlds I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d. 

Are yet two Romans living such as these? The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! 

O, it came over my ear like the sweet south, that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing, and giving odor! 

He plays o’ th’ viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature. 

Diseases desperate grown By desparate appliance are relieved, Or not at all. 

She prizes not such trifles as these are: The gifts she looks from me are pack’d and lock’d Up in my heart, which I have given already But not deliver’d. 

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! 

For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as the heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me! 

Make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse; That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose. 

My fate cries out And makes each petty artere in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve. 

You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant! But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel. 

Go with me, like good angels, to my end; And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, And lift my soul to heaven. 

The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon. Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes. The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclosed, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. 

The image of a wicked heinous fault Lives in his eye. 

Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth. 

(Gloucester:) Were it not good your grace could fly to heaven? (King Henry:) The treasury of everlasting joy. 

Well, I’ll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking. I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. 

Make false hair, and thatch your poor thin roofs with burthens of the dead. 

Jove and my stars be praised. Here is yet a postscript. 

Obey thy parents, keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man’s sworn spouse; set not thy sweet heart on proud array. Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy pen from lenders’ books. 

Words are words; I never yet did hear, That the bruis’d heart was pierced through the ear. 

But this swift business I must uneasy make, lest too light winning Make the prize light. 

Though love use reason for its precision, he admits him not for his councillor. 

When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. 

Once again I do receive thee honest. Who by repentance is not satisfied is nor of heaven nor earth. 

But if these (As I am sure they do) bear fire enough To kindle cowards and to steel with valor The melting spirits of women, then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? 

Give me a bowl of wine. In this I bury all unkindness. Cassius. 

(Falstaff:) What wind blew you hither, Pistol? (Pistol:) Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. 

O, you shall see him laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up! 

Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view. 

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite, Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes, That banish what they sue for: redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will, Or else he must not only die the death, But thy unkindess shall his death draw out To ling’ring sufferance. 

Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and ’twill out at the keyhole; stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney. 

Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, But with a crafty madness keeps aloof When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state. 

Shall I lay perjury upon any soul? No, not for Venice! 

So man and man should be, But clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike. 

You say, you are a better soldier: Let it appear so; make your vaunting true. And it shall please me well. 

Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enjoyed, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. 

One, whose subdu’d eyes, Albeit unused to the melting mood, Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their medicinal gum. 

When old Time shall lead him to his end, goodness and he fill up one monument. 

A heavy heart bears not a humble tongue; Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtained. 

Away with her, and waft her hence to France. And now what rests but that we spend the time With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, Such as befits the pleasure of the court? Sound drums and trumpets! Farewell sour annoy! For here I hope begins our lasting joy. 

Ornament is but the gilded shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian; beauty, in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. 

He speaks home; you may relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar. 

The early village cock Hath twice done salutation to the morn: Your friends are up and buckle on their armor. 

I see my reputation is at stake; My fame is shrewdly gored. 

Sir, I am about to weep; but, thinking that We are a queen (or long have dreamed so), certain The daughter of a king, my drops of tears I’ll turn to sparks of fire. 

Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poor, Most choice forsaken, and most loved despised, Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon. 

It is the first that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. 

You think I’ll weep. No, I’ll not weep. I have full cause of weeping, but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I’ll weep. 

Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is, how giddily he turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? 

If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. 

Take note, take note, O world, To be direct and honest is not safe. 

All other doubts, by time let them be cleared; Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered. 

Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in live. Now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe Upon a dwarfish thief. 

O, no, a lanthorn, slaught’red youth, For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. 

There appears much joy in him, even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness. A kind overflow of kindness, – there are no faces truer than those that are so washed. 

I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; And if I die, no should will pity me. And, wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself? 

Oli. – What’s a drunken man like, fool? Clo. – Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman; one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him. 

If one by one you wedded all the world, Or from the all that are took something good To make a perfect woman, she you killed Would be unparalleled. 

The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good. The goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, should keep the body of it ever fair. 

But you are wise, Or else you love not, for to be wise and love Exceeds man’s might; that dwells with gods above. 

From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, The place is dignified by th’ doer’s deed. Where great additions swell’s, and virtue none, It is a dropsied honor. Good alone Is good without a name; vileness is so: The property by what it is should go, Not by the title. 

I had rather chop this hand off at a blow And with the other fling it at thy face Than bear so low a sail to strike to thee. 

Thersites’s body is as good as Ajax’s when neither are alive. 

O, she is fallen Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again. 

A heavier task could not have been impos’d, Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable. 

Had she been light, like you, Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, She might ha’ been a grandam ere she died; And so may you, for a light heart lives long. 

The torrent roar’d; and we did buffet it With lusty sinews; throwing it aside, And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 

Men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages: A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross. 

Know you not, master, to some kind of men their graces serve them but as enemies? No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master, are sanctified and holy traitors to you. Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely envenoms him that bears it! 

My master is of churlish disposition And little recks to find the way to heaven By doing deeds of hospitality. 

He is so plaguy proud that the death-tokens of it Cry ‘No recovery. 

He seems to be of great authority. Close with him, give him gold; and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold. 

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows. 

To sing a song that old was sung, From ashes ancient Gower is come, Assuming man’s infirmities To glad your ear and please your eyes. 

To thee I do commend my watchful soul Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes: Sleeping and waking. 

Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on, And turn again. 

Ay, and Ratolorum too; and a gentleman born, Master Parson, who writes himself Armigero, in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation – Armigero! 

If they perceive dissension in our looks And that within ourselves we disagree, How will their grudging stomachs be provoked To willfull disobedience, and rebel! 

This morning, like the spirit of a youth That means to be of note, begins betimes. 

The cowslips tall her pensioners be. In their gold coats spots you see: Those be rubies, fairy favors; In those freckles live their savors. 

Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful. Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge: Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son. 

That what he will he does, and does so much That proof is call’d impossibility. 

Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. 

Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the King my father’s wrack, This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air. 

Talk logic with acquaintances, and practise rhetoric in your common talk. 

Where’s the cook? Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept, the servingmen in their new fustian and white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on? 

I am afraid to think what I have done; look on it again I dare not. 

Tell me, my daughters (Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state), Which of you shall we say doth love us most, That our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge. 

For the selfsame heaven That frowns on me looks sadly upon him. 

Fair Katherine, and most fair, Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms Such as will enter at a lady’s ear And plead his love suit to her gentle heart? 

I love my country’s good, with a respect more tender, more holy and profound, than my own life. 

The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasures of the world, Is all too wanton and too full of gawds To give me audience. 

For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, and yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger; at whose approach ghosts, wandering here and there, troop home to churchyards. 

She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her for having pitied them. 

O God! O God! How weary, stale, fiat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world! 

Custom calls me to ‘t. What custom wills, in all things should we do’t, The dust on antique time would lie unswept And mountainous error be too highly heaped For truth t’ o’erpeer. 

If Cassio do remain, He hath a daily beauty in his life That makes me ugly; and besides, the Moor May unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril. 

No man shed tears for noble Mutius; He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause. 

I pray you all, If you have hitherto concealed this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still. And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding but no tongue. 

All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him By inch-meal a disease! 

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this. 

O, he’s as tedious As a tir’d horse, a railing wife; Worse than a smoky house; I had rather live With cheese and garlic in a windmill far Than feed on cates, and have him talk to me In any summer house in Christendom. 

And there at Venice gave His body to that pleasant country’s earth, And his pure soul unto his captain Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long. 

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

Worthy Marcius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that Thou art thence banish’d, we would muster all From twelve to seventy; and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o’erbeat. 

(Proteus:) Why, then, we’ll make exchange. Here, take you this. (Julia:) And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. 

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust And, live we how we can, yet die we must. 

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest With more of thine. 

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor, For ’tis the mind that make the body rich; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds So honor peereth in the meanest habit. 

So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenced in stronds afar remote. 

Here are a few of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper. 

Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. 

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, And from the organ-pipe of fraity sings His soul and body to their lasting rest. 

If ever you have looked on better days, if ever been where bells have knolled to church, if ever sat at any good man’s feast, if ever from your eyelids wiped a tear and know what ’tis to pity and be pitied, let gentleness my strong enforcement sue. 

Let it be so. Sir John, To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word; For he to-night shall lie with Mistress Ford. 

Heaven will one day open The king’s eyes that so long have slept upon This bold bad man. 

You taught me language, and my profit on’t Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language! 

May he be suffocate, That dims the honour of this warlike isle! 

If thou deny’st it, twenty times thou liest; And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, Where it was forged, with my rapier’s point. 

Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. 

Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars Between this chastised kingdom and myself, And brought in matter that should feed this fire; And now ’tis far too huge to be blown out With the same weak wind which enkindled it. 

Tis well said again, And ’tis a kind of good deed to say well; And yet words are no deeds. 

Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, And each hour’s joy wracked with a week of teen. 

Here’s flowers for you, Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram, The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ th’ sun. And with him rises weeping. 

I will attend my husband, be his nurse, Diet his sickness, for it is my office, And will have no attorney but myself; And therefore let me have him home with me. 

See here, my friends and loving countrymen: This token serveth for a flag of truce Betwixt ourselves and all our followers. 

O villain, thou hast stol’n both mine office and my name! The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame. 

How would you be, If He, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are? O think on that, And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made. 

O, how thy worth with manners may I sing When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring, And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee? 

And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. 

When I was stamp’d, some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit. 

To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe, And so your follies fight against yourself. Fear, and be slain – so worse can come to fight; And fight and die is death destroying death, Where fearing dying pays death servile breath. 

That same dew, which sometime on the buds was wont to swell, like round and orient pearls, stood now within the pretty flowerets’ eyes, like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. 

Stealing her soul with many vows of faith; And ne’er a true one. 

Were’t not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honored love, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. 

Who rises from a feast with that keen appetite that be sits down? 

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which shows like grief itself, but is not so; For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects, Like perspectives, which rightly gazed upon, Show nothing but confusion – eyed awry, Distinguish form. 

I have this while with leaden, thoughts been press’d; But I shall, in a more continuate time, Strike off this score of absence. 

According to his virtue let us use him, With all respect and rites of burial. 

Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. 

To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal; But sorrow flouted at is double death. 

The best thing in him Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue Did make offense, his eye did heal it up. 

O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain than youthful April shall with all his showers; in summer’s drought I’ll drop upon thee still. 

Do you know what a man is? Are not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man? 

O our lives’ sweetness, That we the pain of death would hourly die Rather than die at once! 

A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross; I’ll then nor give not hazard aught for lead. 

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain, That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple. Love made those hollows, if himself were slain, He might be buried in a tomb so simple; Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie, Why, there Love lived, and there he could not die. 

Rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words, With better appetite. 

Tis gold Which buys admittance – oft it doth – yea, and makes Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up This deer to th’ stand o’ th’ stealer: and ’tis gold Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the thief, Nay, sometimes hangs both thief and true man. 

He hath a tear for pity and a hand Open as day for meting charity. 

Famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes, Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back: The world is not thy friend, not the world’s law; The world affords no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it and take this. 

Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides, Who covers faults, at last with shame derides. 

Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in holiday humor and like enough to consent. 

Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find, The error of our eye directs our mind. What error leads must error. 

He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block. 

Nay, then, farewell! I have touch’d the highest point of all my greatness; And from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting. I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. 

A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another! 

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest. 

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes. Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devoured As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done. 

The venom clamours of a jealous woman Poison more deadly than a mad-dog’s tooth. 

Pisa, renowned for grave citizens, Gave me my being and my father first, A merchant of great traffic through the world, Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. 

Yea, at that very moment Consideration like an angel came And whipped th’ offending Adam out of him, Leaving his body as a paradise T’ envelop and contain celestial spirits. 

I must to the barber’s, monsieur; for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face, and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch. 

Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; Who doth the world so gloriously behold That cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold. 

I will ask him for my place again: he shall tell me I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is unblest, and the ingredient is a devil. 

Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light, And canopied in darkened sweetly lay Till they might open to adorn the day. 

Safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head, The least a death to nature. 

Unthread the rude eye of rebellion, And welcome home again discarded faith. 

These flow’rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on’t. 

A very riband in the cap of youth, Yet needful too, 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. 

For his dreams, I wonder he’s so simple to trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers. 

You may as well say that’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion. 

If it prove so, then loving goes by haps; Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. 

As surfeit is the father of much fast, so every scope by the immoderate use turns to restraint. 

Faith, I have been a truant in the law And never yet could frame my will to it, And therefore frame the law unto my will. 

Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unused. 

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, Which in their summer beauty kissed each other. 

God knows I loved my niece, And she is dead, slandered to death by villains, That dare as well answer a man indeed As I dare take a serpent by the tongue. Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops! 

Thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters ‘twixt thyself and me. 

Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset? Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet? 

The world is still deceiv’d with ornament, In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being season’d with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornaments? 

The man was noble, but with his last attempt he wiped it out, destroyed his country; and his name remains to the ensuing age abhorred. 

O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping! 

Another lean unwashed artificer Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death. 

I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument? 

Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat, or bespeak a long spoon. 

It is the part of men to fear and tremble When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. 

Ah! when the means are gone that buy this praise, The breath is gone whereof this praise is made. 

Poor wretches that depend On greatness’ favor, dream as I have done; Wake, and find nothing. 

Tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburden’d crawl toward death. 

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man that function Is smothered in surmise and nothing is But what is not. 

Dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. And I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality, that it is but a shadow’s shadow. 

The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away. 

If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs. ‘A brushes his hat o’ mornings. What should that bode? 

The color of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds ‘twixt two dreadful battles set: His passion is so ripe, it needs must break. 

Say that she rail, why then I’ll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown, I’ll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly washed with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word, Then I’ll commend her volubility And say she uttereth piercing eloquence. 

I am an ass indeed; you may prove it by my long ears. I have served him from the hour of my nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his hands for my service but blows. When I am cold, he heats me with beating; when I am warm, he cools me with beating. 

The empress, the midwife, and yourself: Two may keep counsel when the third’s away. Go to the empress, tell her this I said. 

What cracker is this same that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath? 

Lie ten nights awake carving the fashion of a new doublet. 

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 sealed in vain, sealed in vain. 

I confess it is my nature’s plague To spy into abuses; and, oft, my jealousy Shapes faults that are not. 

I pray thee, leave me to myself tonight; for I have need of many orisons to move the heavens to smile upon my state, which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin. 

Every night he comes With musics of all sorts, and songs composed To her unworthiness. It nothing steads us To chide him from our eaves, for he persists As if his life lay on’t. 

The trees by the way should have borne men, and expectation fainted, longing for what it had not. 

The reasons you allege do more conduce To the hot passion of distemp’red blood Than to make up a free determination ‘Twixt right and wrong, for pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision. 

Why, man, she is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel A twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 

I said an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say ‘better’? 

Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, Of color like the red rose on triumphant brier, Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire, I’ll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb. 

Be advis’d; 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. 

Look, who comes here! A grave unto a soul, Holding th’ eternal spirit, against her will, In the vile prison of afflicted breath. 

Berowne they call him; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour’s talk withal. 

Wilt thou have music? Hark, Apollo plays, And twenty caged nightingales do sing. 

Th’ expressure that it bears, green let it be, More fertile-fresh than all the field to see; And ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’ write In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white, Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, Buckled below fair knighthood’s bending knee. (Fairies use flowers for their character.) 

Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge had stomach for them all. 

Yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day. 

Heaven’s above all; and there be souls that must be saved, and there be souls that must not be saved. 

O, sir, you are old; Nature in you stands on the very verge Of his confine. 

So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate. 

We are gentlemen, That neither in our hearts, nor outward eyes, Envy the great, nor do the low despise. 

Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fired I follow you, To do I know not what; but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on. 

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me (Out of thy honest truth) to play the woman. 

So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. 

The sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn’d, Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws. 

He lost a wife Whose beauty did astonish the survey Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive, Whose dear perfection hearts that scorned to serve Humbly called mistress. 

I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life. 

Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet, For you and I are past our dancing days. 

Tis better using France than trusting France; Let us be back’d with God, and with the seas, Which He hath given for fence impregnable, And with their helps only defend ourselves; In them, and in ourselves, our safety lies. 

When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills, And I must minister the like to you. 

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say it lightens. 

Follow thy drum; With man’s blood paint the ground, gules, gules! Religious canons, civil laws are cruel; Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine Hath in her more destruction than thy sword For all her cherubin look. 

No, rather let my head Stoop to the block than theses knees bow to any Save to the God of heaven and to my king; And sooner dance upon a bloody pole Than stand uncovered to the vulgar groom. 

Shortly his fortune shall be lifted higher; True industry doth kindle honour’s fire. 

These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i’ th’ alehouse. 

Music do I hear? Ha – ha – keep time! How sour sweet music is When time is broke and no proportion kept! 

Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that; You take my house, when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house; you take my life, When you do take the means whereby I live. 

O war, thou son of hell, Whom angry heavens do make their minister, Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part Hot coals of vengeance. Let no soldier fly. He that is truly dedicate to war Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself Hath not essentially, but by circumstance, The name of valor. 

Nay, all of you that stand and look upon Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself, Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands, Showing an outward pity, yer you Pilates Have here delivered me to my sour cross, And water cannot wash away your sin. 

She has a housewife’s hand; but that’s no matter: I say she never did invent this letter; This is a man’s invention and his hand. 

Trust me, sweet, Out of silence yet I picked a welcome, And in the modesty of fearful duty I read as much as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. 

Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff’d and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And reeks not his own road. 

If there be more, more woeful, hold it in, For I am almost ready to dissolve, Hearing of this. 

Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colors wave, And either victory, or else a grave! 

O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year. 

I did but dream O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! 

I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall. 

Stoop, boys. This gate Instructs you how t’ adore the heavens and bows you To a morning’s holy office. 

Our remedies oft in ourselves do, Which we ascribe to Heav’n. The fated sky Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull. 

Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear The very stones prate of my whereabout. 

The hearts Of all his people shall revolt from him, And kiss the lips of unacquainted change. 

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. 

The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds Were strangely clamorous, to the frighted fields. 

To kill, I grant, is sin’s extremest gust; But, in defence, by mercy, ’tis most just. 

Bear from hence his body, And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded As the most noble corse that ever herald Did follow to his urn. 

Doubt not, my lord, I’ll play the orator As if the golden fee for which I plead Were for myself – and so, my lord, adieu. 

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

I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking; I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment. 

You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it that do buy it with much care. 

Whither are they vanished? Into the air; and what seemed corporal melted, as breath into the wind. 

He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. 

Speak, what trade art thou? Why, sir, a carpenter. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What does thou with thy best apparel on? 

Windy attorneys to their client woes, Airy succeeders of intestate joys, Poor breathing orators of miseries! Let them have scopes: though what they do impart Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart. 

Tis all men’s office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. 

We cannot fight for love, as men may do; We should be wooed, and were not made to woo. 

These eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears: Sham’d their aspects with store of childish drops. 

I have learned that fearful commenting Is leaden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary. 

At Christmas I no more desire a rose, Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled shows; But like of each thing that in season grows. 

In this state she gallops, night by night, o’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream. 

(Hamlet:) Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that ‘a sings at grave-making? (Horatio:) Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness. 

(Hamlet:) What news? (Rosencrantz:) None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest. (Hamlet:) Then is doomsday near. But your news is not true. 

Opinion’s but a fool, that makes us scan The outward habit by the inward man. 

Nine changes of the wat’ry star hath been The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne Without a burthen. 

A good old man, sir; he will be talking. As they say, When the age is in, the wit is out. God help us! it is a world to see! 

I am thy father’s spirit; Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night And, for the day, confin’d to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purg’d away. 

So the gods bless me, When all our offices have been oppressed With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept With drunken spilth of wine, when every room Hath blazed with lights and brayed with minstrelsy, I have retired me to a wasteful cock And set mine eyes at flow. 

But, orderly to end where I begun, Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. 

Trust none; For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes, And Hold-fast is the only dog, my duck. 

That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose: Angels are bright still though the brightest fell; Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so. 

I saw him beat the surges under him, And ride upon their backs; he trod the water, Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoln that met him. 

Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and lips O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death. 

And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude. 

If thou art rich, thou’rt poor, For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee. 

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

Look when a painter would surpass the like In limning out a well-proportioned steed, His art with nature’s workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed – So did this horse excel a common one In shape, in courage, color, pace, and bone. 

The eastern gate, all fiery red, Opening on Neptune, with fair blessed beams, Turns into yellow gold his salt-green streams. 

All the stored vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! 

Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt, Since riches point to misery and contempt? 

Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? 

And then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend them at my pleasure. 

When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

Fye! fye! unknit that threat’ning unkind brow; And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor: It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads; Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds; And in no sense is meet, or amiable. 

Poise the cause in justice’s equal scales, Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails. 

Within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married. 

It fits us therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness. 

The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And like this unsubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. 

Twas merry when You wagered on your angling, when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up. 

You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. 

O thoughts of men accurst! Past and to come seems best; things present, worst. 

Give me good proofs of what you have alleged: ‘Tis hot enough to say – in such a bush There lies a thief – in such a cave a beast; But you must show him to me ere I shoot, Else I may kill one of my straggling sheep. 

I’ll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God reward him. If I do grow great, I’ll grow less; for I’ll purge, and leave sack, and live cleanly, as a nobleman should do. 

This is he That kiss’d away his hand in courtesy; This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice, That when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honorable terms; nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and in ushering, Mend him who can; the ladies call him, sweet; The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. 

And, seeing ignorance is the curse of God, Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven, Unless you be possessed with devilish spirits, You cannot but forbear to murder me. 

When the searching eye of heaven is hid Behind the globe, and lights the lower world, Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen, In murthers and in outrage boldly here. 

If hearty sorrow be a sufficient ransom for offence, I tender it here; I do as truly suffer, as ever I did commit. 

Like madness is the glory of this life As this pomp shows to a little oil and root. 

I crave fit disposition for my wife; Due reference of place, and exhibition; With such accommodation, and besort, As levels with her breeding. 

Whose tongue soe’er speaks false, Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies. 

See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath! He that but fears the thing he would not know, Hath, by instinct, knowledge from others’ eyes, That what he feared is chanced. 

Most friendship is faining, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly. This life is most jolly. 

Therefore they thought it good for hear a play And frame your mind to mirth and merriment, Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life. 

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, ‘This poet lies – Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces. 

Rumor doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared. 

What all so soon asleep; I wish mine eyes Would with themselves shut up my thoughts. 

By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, By any indirection. 

What is wedlock forced, but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth forth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace. 

How goes it now, sir? This news which is called true is so like an old tale that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. 

And I another, So weary with disasters, tugged with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance To mend it or be rid on’t. 

For men, like butterflies, show not their mealy wings but to the summer. 

It is not so with Him that all things knows As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows; But most it is presumption in us, when The help of heaven we count the act of men. 

Therefore, brave conquerors – for so you are That war against your own affections And the huge army of the world’s desires – Our late edict shall strongly stand in force: Navarre shall be the wonder of the world; Our court shall be a little academe, Still and contemplative in living art. 

Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting o’ days and foining o’ nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven? 

Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die. 

The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious. If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hat Caesar answered it. 

Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered? No, let the candied tongue like absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. 

When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honeydew Upon a gath’red lily almost withered. 

O serpent heart, hid with a flow’ring face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? 

So smooth he daubed his vice with show of virtue That, his apparent open guilt omitted – I mean, his conversation with Shore’s wife – He lived from all attainder of suspects. 

So thanks to all at once and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crowned at Scone. 

Crowns have their compass – length of days their date – Triumphs their tomb – felicity, her fate – Of nought but earth can earth make us partaker, But knowledge makes a king most like his Maker. 

Sir, For holy offices I have a time; a time To think upon the part of business which I bear i’ th’ state; and nature does require Her times of preservation, which perforce I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal, Must give my tendance to. 

Then my dial goes not true; I look this lark for a bunting. 

Had I but serv’d my God with half the zeal I serv’d my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

Or, having sworn too hard a keeping oath; Study to break it and not break my troth. 

We often see, against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The bold winds speechless, and the orb below As hush as death. 

His silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds; It shall be said his judgment rul’d our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity. 

Ruminates like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning. 

O Thou, whose captain I account myself, Look on my forces with a gracious eye; Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath, That they may crush down with a heavy fall The usurping helmets of our adversaries; Make us thy ministers of chastisement, That we may praise thee in the victory. 

Wit, an’t be thy will, put me into good fooling. Those wits that think they have thee do very oft prove fools, and I that am sure I lack thee may pass for a wise man. For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit? 

I’ll give thee armor to keep off that word; Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished. 

Come, swear it, damn thyself, lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves should fear to seize thee; therefore be double-damned, swear, – thou art honest. 

Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought It was both impious and unnatural That such immanity and bloody strife Should reign among professors of one faith. 

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous To lock such rascal encounters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces! 

Do not honor him so much To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart. What valor were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth When he might spurn him with his foot away? 

(Goneril:) I have been worth the whistle. (Albany:) O Goneril, You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face. 

Frateretto calls me, and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend. 

One that hath been a courtier, And says, if ladies be but young and fair, They have the gift to know it. 

She wish’d she had not heard it, yet she wish’d That heaven had made her such a man: She thank’d me, And bade me, if I had a friend that lov’d her, I should but teach him how to tell my story And that would woo her. 

Men should be what they seem; Or those that be not, would they might seem none! 

You would for paradise break faith and troth; And Jove, for your live, would infringe an oath. 

Look to her, Moor; if thou host eyes to see: She has deceiv’d her father, and may thee. 

So soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and as thou draw’st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. 

(Timon:) Wrought he not well that painted it? (Apemantus:) He wrought better that made the painter, and yet he’s but a filthy piece of work. 

I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart; Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burden, For selfsame wind that I should speak withal Is kindling coals that fires all my breast And burns me up with flames that tears would quench. 

Did ever raven sing so like a lark That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise? 

What is the end of study? Let me know? Why, that to know, which else we should not know. Things hid and barr’d, you mean, from common sense? Ay, that is study’s god-like recompense. 

O, give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortnue’s book! 

Why, headstrong liberty is lashed with woe. There’s nothing situate under heaven’s eye But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky. 

O, that a mighty man of such descent, Of such possessions, and so high esteem, Should be infused with so foul a spirit! 

Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! 

Sometime we see a cloud that’s dragonish; A vapour sometime like a bear or lion, A towered citadel, a pendant rock, A forked mountain, or blue promontory With trees upon’t that nod unto the world, And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs; They are black Vesper’s pageants. 

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly, Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy? 

I have perceived a most faint neglect of late, which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretense and purpose of unkindness. 

Thou dost shame That bloody spoil. Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou fortune’s champion, that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! 

Like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. 

I drew this gallant head of war, And cull’d these fiery spirits from the world, To outlook conquest and to win renown Even in the jaws of danger and of death. 

Why, that is nothing, for I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as she proud-minded, And where two waging fires meet together They do consume the thing that feeds their fury. Though little fire grows great with little wind, Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all. 

Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show’st thee in a child Than the sea-monster. 

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But O, what damned minutes tells he o’er Who dotes, yet doubts – suspects, yet strongly loves! 

I never heard yet that any of these bolder vices wanted less impudence to gainsay what they did, than to perform it first. 

With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I’ll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Outsweet’ned not thy breath. 

There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture. 

I am your host. With robber’s hands in my hospitable favors You should not ruffle thus. 

He makes a July’s day short as December, And with his varying childness cures in me Thoughts that would thick my blood. 

For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, So honour peereth in the meanest habit. 

Intend some fear; Be not you spoke with but by mighty suit; And look you get a prayer book in your hand And stand between two churchmen, good my lord, For on that ground I’ll make a holy descant; And be not easily won to our requests. 

Emulation hath a thousand sons, that one by one pursue; if you give way, or edge aside from the direct forthright, like to an entered tide, they all rush by, and leave you hindmost. 

For my voice, I have lost it with hollaing and singing of anthems. 

We were as twinned lambs that did frisk i’ th’ sun, And bleat the one at th’ other. What we changed Was innocence for innocence; we knew not The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dreamed That any did. 

When Duncan is asleep (Whereto the rather shall his day’s hard journey Soundly invite him), his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbeck only. 

Now, for not looking on a woman’s face, You have in that forsworn the use of eyes, And study too, the causer of your vow; For where in any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman’s eye? 

They spake not a word; But like dumb statues or breathless stones, Star’d on each other, and look’d deadly pale. 

Bold, adversity Cries out for noble York and Somerset, To beat assailing death from his weak legions. And whiles the honorable captain there Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs. 

Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. 

Tis death to me to be at enmity; I hate it, and desire all good men’s love. 

I have lived long enough. My way of life Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf, And that which should accompany old age, As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. 

Why, what’s the matter That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness? 

How many cowards wear yet upon their chins the beards of Hercules and frowning Mars! 

In thy face I see the map of honor, truth, and loyalty. 

We must die, Messala. With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now. 

Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine are counsellors to fear. 

If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and this is mine; You give away heaven’s vows, and those are mine; You give away myself, which is known mine; For I by vow am so embodied yours That she which marries you must marry me – Either both or none. 

No, truly, ’tis more than manners will; And I have heard it said, unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone. 

I had rather be a dog and bay the moon Than such a Roman. 

The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth, Now the king drinks to Hamlet. 

Under your good correction, I have seen When, after execution, judgment hath Repented o’er his doom. 

What, keep a week away? seven days and nights? Eightscore eight hours? and lovers’ absent hours, More tedious than the dial eightscore times? O weary reck’ning! 

I am glad to see you well; Horatio, – or I do forget myself. 

From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. 

To you your father should be as a god; One that compos’d your beauties; yea, and one, To whom you are but as a form in wax, By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure, or disfigure it. 

Give me mine angle, we’ll to th’ river: there, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finned fishes. My bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws; and as I draw them up, I’ll think them every one an Antony, And say, ‘Ah, ha! are caught! 

O, be sick, great greatness, and bid thy ceremony give thee cure! Thinkest thou the fiery fever will go out with titles blown from adulation? 

As fast lock’d up in sleep, as guiltless labor, When it lies starkly in the traveller’s bones. 

(Pedro:) In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. (Beatrice:) Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. 

He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven And fire us hence like foxes. 

The air of paradise did fan the house, and angels officed all. 

This yellow slave Will knit and break religions; bless the accurs’d; Make the hoar leprosy ador’d; place thieves, And give them title, knee, and approbation, With senators on the bench. 

We will proceed no further in this business. He hath honored me of late, and I have brought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon. 

They more or less came in with cap and knee, Met him in boroughs, cities, villages; Attended him on bridges, stood on lanes, Laid gifts before him, proffer’d him their oaths, Gave him their heirs: as pages follow’d him, Even at his heels, in golden multitudes. 

No, I will rob Tellus of her weed, To strow thy green with flowers. The yellows, blues, The purple violets, and marigolds, Shall, as a carpet, hand upon thy grave, While summer days do last. 

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

Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud’s town march, And in the temple of the great Jupiter Our peace we’ll ratify, seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were washed, with such a peace. 

She shall watch all night: And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl And with the clamour keep her still awake. This is the way to kill a wife with kindness. 

Prithee, friend, Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, The good and the bad together: he’s friends with Caesar, In state of health, thou say’st, and thou say’st, free. 

A took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? 

Then kissed me hard, as if he plucked up kisses by the roots, that grew upon my lips. 

I’ll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath. Who shuns not to break one will crack both: But in our orbs we’ll live so sound and safe That time of both this truth shall ne’er convince, Thou show’dst a subject’s shine, I a true prince. 

Thou com’st to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly. But thou liest in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for. 

Your wisdom is consumed in confidence! Do not go forth to-day! 

Yet thou dost look Like Patience gazing on kings’ graves and smiling Extremity out of act. 

The error of our eye directs our mind. What error leads must err. 

You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch. Therefore bear you the lanthorn. 

The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes. 

Madam, ’twas Ariadne passioning For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight, Which I so lively acted with my tears That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead, If I in thought felt not her very sorrow! 

Look, the gentle day, Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsy east with spots of gray. 

He hath never fed of the daintier that are bred in a book. 

The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor’s edge invisible, Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen; Above the sense of sense, so sensible Seemeth their conference, their conceits have wings Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things. 

What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do. Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears… 

Nay, but this dotage of our general’s O’erflows the measure: those his goodly eyes That o’er the files and musters of war Have glowed like plated Mars, now bend, now turn The office and devotion of their view Upon a tawny front. 

The hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. 

And mind, with my heart in’t; and now farewell Till half an hour hence. 

Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gundello. 

Each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if felt with Scotland and yelled out Like syllable of dolor. 

Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Hath raised me from my bed; nor doth the general care Take hold on me; for my particular grief Is of so floodgate and o’erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself. 

Say, what’s thy name? Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in’t; though thy tackle’s torn, Thou show’st a noble vessel. What’s thy name? 

Heaven bless thee, Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on. Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel; Our king has all the Indies in his arms, And more, and richer, when he strains that lady. I cannot blame his conscience. 

And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread. 

I would have thee gone, And yet no further than a wanton’s bird, Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again. 

As I have seen a swan With bootless labour swim against the tide And spend her strength with over-matching waves. 

He that has a house to put ‘s head in has a good headpiece. 

Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth, Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts? 

Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice; Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand, In whose comparison all whites are ink, Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure The cygnet’s down is harsh, and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughman. 

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it doth singe yourself. 

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

Even at this sight My heart is turned to stone; and while ’tis mine, It shall be stony. 

Sir, for a cardecue he will sell the fee simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it, and cut th’ entail from all remainders, and a perpetual succession for it perpetually. 

This is the fairy land. O spite of spites, We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites! If we obey them not, this will ensue: They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue. 

(Pistol:) And tidings do I bring and lucky joys And golden times and happy news of price. (Falstaff:) I pray thee now, deliver them like a man of this world. 

A is far gone, far gone. And truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love, very near this. 

Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, Numb’ring our Ave Marias with our beads? Or shall we on the helmets of our foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms. 

A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, Which is as brief as I have known a play; But by ten words, my lord, it is too long, Which makes it tedious. 

He did look far Into the service of the time, and was Discipled of the bravest. He lasted long, But on us both did haggish age steal on, And wore us out of act. 

Bonos dies, Sir Toby; for, as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, ‘That that is is’; so, I, being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for what is ‘that’ but that, and ‘is’ but is? 

It is a quarrel most unnatural, To be reveng’d on him that loveth thee. 

O Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him That is renowned for faith? Be fickle, Fortune, For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back. 

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. 

Slander’s mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air, So thou be good, slander doth but approve Thy worth the greater. 

I have heard The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of the day, and at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, Th’ extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine; and of the truth herein This present object made probation. 

A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living. 

To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa and is here at the door to speak with him. 

O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. 

Dreams are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fanfasy; which is as thin of substance as the air, and more inconstant than the wind. 

But I pray you, let none of your people stir me. I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. 

It will be short; the interim is mine, And a man’s life ‘s no more than to say ‘one. 

Shall we upon the footing of our land Send fair-play orders, and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truce, To arms invasive? 

Whoe’er he be that in this foul proceeding Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself, And you of her, the bloody book of law You shall yourself read in the bitter letter After your own sense; yea, though our proper son Stood in your action. 

O England! model to thy inward greatness, Like little body with a mighty heart, What mightst thou do that honour would thee do, Were all thy children kind and natural! 

Breaking his oath and resolution, like A twist of rotten silk. 

Loose now and then a scattered smile, and that I will live upon. 

Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine, (Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red) The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine – What seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head; Look in mine eyeballs; there thy beauty lies; Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes? 

They bore him barefaced on the bier [Hey non nony, nony, hey nony] And in his grave rained many a tear – Fare you well, my dove! 

To shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious pirds sing madrigals; There will we make our peds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies. To shallow 

The earth hath bubbles as the water has, And these are of them. 

I am a soldier, and unapt to weep Or to exclaim on fortune’s fickleness. 

Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars That make ambition virtue. 

Here I and sorrow sit. Here is my throne; bid kings come bow to it. 

Yet I’ll not shed her blood, Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, And smooth as monumental alabaster. 

Reason, you rogue, reason: thinkest thou, I’ll endanger my soul gratis? 

So shall you hear Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts, Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters, Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause, And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall’n on th’ inventors’ heads. 

O polished perturbation! Golden care! That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night! 

I am angling now, Though you perceive me not hos I give line. 

… The dove and very blessed spirit of peace,… 

Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, They shall be fam’d; for there the stun shall greet them, And draw their honors reeking up to heaven; Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime. 

How oft, when men are at the point of death, Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death. 

Oh, how this spring of life resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And, by and by, a cloud takes all away! 

I charge thee, Satan, housed within this man, To yield possession to my holy prayers, And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight. I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven. 

Dead Is noble Timon, of whose memory Hereafter more. Bring me into your city, And I will use the olive with my sword, Make war breed peace, make peace stint war, make each Prescribe to other, as each other’s leech. Let our drums strike. 

He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet – just so many strange dishes. 

A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch, Uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy. 

His honor is as true In this appeal as thou art all unjust; And that thou art so, there I throw my gage To prove it on thee to the extremest point Of mortal breathing. 

Haste me to know it; that I with wings as swift as meditation, or the thoughts of love, may sweep to my revenge. 

O, let her brother live: Thieves for the robbery have authority When judges steal themselves. 

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. 

Look, as I blow this feather from my face And as the air blows it to me again, Obeying with my wind when I do blow And yielding to another when it blows, Commanded always by the greater gust – Such is the lightness of you common men. 

Well, I am not of that feather to shake off My friend when he most needs me. 

Look, the world’s comforter, with weary gait, His day’s hot task hath ended in the west: The owl, night’s herald, shrieks -’tis very late; The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest; And coat-black clouds, that shadow heaven’s light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night. 

Would he were fatter! But I fear him not. Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. 

O that this too too sullied flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew, Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter. 

We must not stint Our necessary actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever, As rav’nous fishes, do a vessel follow That is new-trimmed, but benefit no further Than vainly longing. 

A virtuous and a Christianlike conclusion – To pray for them that have done scathe to us. 

Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart shall be found an ass. 

So smile the heavens upon this holy act That after-hours with sorrow chide us not! 

Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag. 

Old John of Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster, Hast thou, according to thy oath and band, Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son, Here to make good the boist’rous late appeal, Which then our leisure would not le us hear, Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? 

If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed; If not, ’tis true this parting was well made. 

Nay, my lords, ceremony was but devised at first To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown; But where there is true friendship, there needs none. 

My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation. 

Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes, And strain their cheeks to idle merriment. 

O hateful Error, Melancholy’s child! Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men The things that are not? O Error, soon conceiv’d, Thou never com’st unto a happy birth, But kill’st the mother that engender’d thee. 

Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite, to follow as it draws. 

Behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea, Breasting the lofty surge. 

This word, rebellion, it had froze them up, as fish are in a pond. 

Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue But moody and dull melancholy, Kinsman to a grim and comfortless despair, And at her heels a huge infectious troop Of pale distemperatures and foes to life? 

Naught is had, all is spent, where our desire is got without content. 

Take this from this, if this be otherwise. If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the center. 

Wear this for me, – one out of suits with fortune, That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. 

Yet marked O 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. 

And teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less That burn by day and night. 

You fools: I and my fellows Are ministers of Fate. The elements, Of whom your swords are tempered, may as well Wound the loud winds, or with bemocked-at stabs Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish One dowle that’s in my plume. 

I know a discontented gentleman Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit: Gold were as good as twenty orators, And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything. 

Thou art a fellow of a good respect; Thy life hath had some smatch of honor in it. 

We shall be winnowed with so rough a wind That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff And good from bad find no partition. 

I can counterfeit the deep tragedian; Speak and look back, and pry on every side, Tremble and start, at wagging of a straw, Intending deep suspicion. 

He is a worthy gentleman, exceedingly well read and profited in strange concealments. 

Season your admiration for a while With an attent ear… 

And with them words of so sweet breath composed As made the things more rich. 

Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint. 

Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault Assemble all the poor men of your sort; Draw them to the Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. 

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, and heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue, that gives not half so great a blow to hear as will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire? 

Anon, as patient as the female dove When that her golden couplets are disclosed, His silence will sit drooping. 

His demand Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love, Bur from deceit, bred by necessity; For how can tyrants safely govern home Unless abroad they purchase great alliance? 

Not Hercules could have knocked out his brains, for he had none. 

If thou beest Prospero, Give us particulars of thy preservation; How thou hast met us here, who three hours since Were wracked upon this shore; where I have lost (How sharp the point of this remembrance is!) My dear son Ferdinand. 

The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day. Now spurs the lated traveller apace To gain the timely inn, and near approaches The subject of our watch. 

O heresy in fair, fit for these days, A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. 

Peace be with you! He who the sword of heaven will bear Should be as holy as severe; Pattern in himself to know, Grace to stand, and virtue go; More nor less to other paying Than by self-offenses weighing. 

Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes; That when I note another man like him I may avoid him. 

And, Father Cardinal, I have heard you say That we shall see and know our friends in heaven. If that be true, I shall see my boy again, For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, To him that did but yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature born. 

O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish, A table-full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish. 

Was ever woman in this humor wooed? Was ever woman in this humor won? 

I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads… 

I come no more to make you laugh. Things now That bear a weighty and a serious brow, Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe, Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow We now present. 

… And but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the forehand and vantage of a king. 

O dishonest wretch! Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice? 

Calumny will sear virtue itself; these shrugs, these hums and ha’s. 

O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I’ll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. 

He has my dying voice. So tell him, with th’ occurrents, more or less, Which have solicited – the rest is silence. 

Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France; For ere thou can’st report I will be there, The thunder of my cannon shall be heard; So hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath. 

O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure? 

For my part, I may speak it to my shame, I have a truant been to chivalry; And so I hear he doth account me too. 

Thus was I sleeping by a brother’s hand Of life, of crown, of queen at once dispatched, Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhouseled, disappointed, unaneled, No reck’ning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head. 

No, no! I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here. 

Who has a breast so pure but some uncleanly apprehensions keep leets and law-days and in session sit with meditations lawful? 

Yet looks he like a king. Behold, his eye, As bright as is the eagle’s lightens forth Controlling majesty. 

To fly the boar, before the boar pursues, Were to incense the boar to follow us, And make pursuit where he did mean no chase. 

Therefore I say again I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul Refuse you for my judge, whom yet once more I hold my most malicious for and think not At all a friend to truth. 

And where two raging fires meet together They do consume the thing that feeds their fury. 

No, when light-winged toys Of feathered Cupid seel with wanton dullness My speculative and officed instruments, That my disports and taint my business, Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, And all indign and base adversities Make head against my estimation! 

If they smile And say ’twill do, I know within a while All the best men are ours; for ’tis ill hap, If they hold when their ladies bid ’em clap. 

Ay, gentle Thurio, for you know that love Wilt creep in service where it cannot go. 

Though other things grow fair against the sun, Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe. 

I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety. 

Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while And like a peacock sweep along his tail; We’ll pull his plumes and take away his train, If Dauphin and the rest will be but ruled. 

There is an old poor man Who after me hath many a weary step Limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed, Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger, I will not touch a bit. 

I have the toothache… What? sigh for the toothache? 

Look what is done cannot be now amended: Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, Which after-hours gives leisure to repent. 

Thought is the slave of life, and life time’s fool; and time, that takes survey of all the world, must have a stop. 

Honor travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path. 

I have seen the dumb men throng to see him, and The blind to hear him speak. Matrons flung gloves, Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers, Upon him as he passed. The nobles bended, As to Jove’s statue, and the commons made A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts. I never saw the like. 

No, precious creature; I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonor undergo While I sit lazy by. 

But if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn; no more was this knight, swearing by his honor, for he never had any. 

Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 

When you do dance, I wish you A wave o’ th’ sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that, move still, still so, And own no other function. 

Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven, Before, behind thee, and on every hand, Enwheel thee round! 

There is thy gold – worse poison to men’s souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh. 

Sleep, that knits up the raveled sleave 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. 

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, when he thinks, good easy man, fully surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls as I do. 

I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please, for so fools have. 

For several virtues Have I lik’d several women; never any With so full soul, but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d, And put it to the foil. 

(Celia:) Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally. (Rosalind:) I would we could do so, for her benefits are mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women. 

Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret; I will be master of what is mine own. She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything; And here she stands, touch her whoever dare. 

For never yet one hour in his bed Have I enjoyed the golden dew of sleep, But have been waked by his timorous dreams. 

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death The memory be green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe, Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him Together with remembrance of ourselves. 

I have givens suck, and know how tender it is to love the babe that milks me. 

Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live But in a dream of friendship, To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnished friends? 

What’s yet in this That bears the name of life? Yet in this life Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear, That makes these odds all even. 

Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow’dst yesterday. 

Remember, sir, my liege, The kings your ancestors, together with The natural bravery of your isle, which stands As Neptune’s park, ribbed and paled in With rocks unscalable and roaring waters, With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats But suck them up to th’ topmast. 

It needs not nor it boots thee not, proud queen, Unless the adage must be verified, That beggars mounted run their horse to death. 

Hence, Horrible villain! or I’ll spurn thine eyes Like balls before me; I’ll unhair thy head; Thou shalt be whipt with wire, and stew’d in brine, Smarting in ling’ring pickle. 

Ungracious wretch, Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, Where manners ne’er were preached! 

May be he is not well. Infirmity doth neglect all office Whereto our health is bound. 

Now for our consciences, the arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just. 

Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night, as a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear. 

You are old; Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her confine: you should be ruled and led By some discretion, that discerns your state Better than you yourself. 

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In plants, herbs, stones, and their true quantities; For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give; Nor aught so good but, strained from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. 

Painting is welcome. The painting is almost the natural man; For since dishonor traffics with man’s nature He is but outside; these pencilled figures are Even such as they give out. 

Let still the woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband’s heart; For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, soon lost and worn, Than women’s are. 

Her sighs will make a batt’ry in his breast; Her tears will pierce into a marble heart; The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn, And Nero will be tainted with remorse To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. 

My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks. O, if thine eye be not a flatterer, Come thou on my side, and entreat for me As you would beg, were you in my distress. A begging prince what beggar pities not? 

Could not all this flesh keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! I could have better spared a better man. 

It should be now, but that my fear is this, Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss. Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases. 

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. 

Here under leave of Brutus and the rest (For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men), Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me; But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. 

This done, he took his bride about the neck And kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack That at the parting all the church did echo. 

And many an old man’s sigh, and many a widow’s, And many an orphan’s water-standing eye – Men for their sons’, wives for their husbands’ fate, And orphans for their parents’ timeless death, – Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. 

There’s no trust, no faith, no honesty, in men; all perjured, all forsworn, all nought, all dissemblers. 

In delivering my son from me I bury a second husband. 

Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most, to my capacity. 

To wail friends lost Is not by much so wholesome – profitable, As to rejoice at friends but newly found. 

Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown, Which our profane hours here have thrown down. 

O, ’tis a perilous boy, Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable: He is all the mother’s, from the top to toe. 

Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you that decerns you nearly. 

Tis the curse of service; Preferment goes by letter, and affection, And not by old gradation, where each second Stood heir to the first. 

Yet thanks I must you con That you are thieves professed, that you work not In holier shapes; for there is boundless theft In limited professions. 

Time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly, Grasps-in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. 

Out of their saddles into the dirt – and thereby hangs a tale. 

Why, that’s spoken like an honest drovier. So they sell bullocks. 

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

The flighty purpose never is o’ertook Unless the deed go with it. 

In that day’s feats, When he might act the woman in the scene, He prov’d best man i’ th’ field, and for his meed Was brow-bound with the oak. 

However we do praise ourselves, our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women’s are. 

Be as just and gracious unto me, As I am confident and kind to thee. 

And therefore ’tis called a sensible tale, and this cuff was but to knock at your ear, and beseech listening. 

Take the instant way; For honor travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast. 

A tear for pity and a hand Open as day for melting charity. 

What should be spoken here, Where our fate, hid in an auger hole, May rush and seize us? 

And be these juggling fiends no more believed, That palter with us in a double sense, That keep the word of promise to our ear And break it to our hope. 

If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia on the like occasion whereon my services are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great differences betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia. 

Your honor’s players, hearing your amendment, Are come to play a pleasant comedy, For so your doctors hold it very meet, Seeing too much sadness hath congealed your blood And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy. 

There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny; the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make it felony to drink small beer. 

You are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spank, And straight is cold again. 

Hail, many-colored messenger, that ne’er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter; Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flowers Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers; And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown My bosky acres, and my unshrubb’d down, Rich scarf to my proud earth. 

What! we have many goodly days to see: The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transformed to orient pearl, Advantaging their love with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness. 

Thrice blessed they that master so their blood To undergo such maiden pilgrimage; But earthlier happy is the rose distilled Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness. 

O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there, From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I made to her in marriage, and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine! 

Food for powder, food for powder; they’ll fill a pit as well as better: tush, man, mortal men, mortal men. 

How i’ the name of thrift doth he rake this together? 

In her days, every man shall eat in safety, Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing The merry song of peace to all his neighbours. 

I swear, ‘t is better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perk’d up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow. 

I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come. 

Horatio, I am dead; Thou livest; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied. 

I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape, And bid me hold my peace. 

You do not meet a man but frowns. Our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the King’s. 

Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in it; tho’ thy tackle’s torn, Thou showest a noble vessel. 

We must be patient; but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i’ the cold ground. 

Thou art sworn as deeply to affect what we intend as closely to conceal what we impart. 

On, on, you noble English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof, Fathers that like so many Alexanders Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument Dishonor not your mothers; now attest That those whom you called fathers did beget you! 

The mouse ne’er shunned the cat as they did budge From rascals worse than they. 

She is a woman, therefore may be wooed; She is a woman, therefore may be won; She is Lavinia, therefore must be loved. 

Tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve, For daws to peck at. 

This is the rarest dream that e’er dull sleep Did mock sad fools withal. 

It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. 

For beauty, wit, High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. 

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

While that the armed hand doth fight abroad, Th’ advised head defends itself at home; For government, through high, and low, and lower, Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, Congreeing in a full and natural close, Like music. 

At my nativity The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, Of burning cressets; and, at my birth, The frame and huge foundation of the earth Shaked like a coward. 

Diseases, desperate grown, By desperate appliance are reliev’d, Or not at all. 

Ye gods, it doth amaze me A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world And bear the palm alone. 

What then? What rests? Try what repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it when one cannot repent? O wretched state? O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that struggling to be free Art more engaged! 

For learn this, Silius, Better to leave undone, than by our deed Acquire too high a fame when him we serve’s away. 

Our army shall In solemn show attend this funeral, And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see High order in this great solemnity. 

But all his mind is bent to holiness, To number Ave-Maries on his beads; His champions are the prophets and apostles, His weapons only saws of sacred writ, His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves Are brazen images of canonized saints. 

I take thy hand, this hand, As soft as dove’s down, and as white as it; Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fann’d snow, That’s bolted by the northern blast twice o’er. 

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours, with Time’s deformed hand, Have written strange defeatures in my face. 

Why tribute? why should we pay tribute? if Caesar can hide the sun from us with a Blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, We will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, No more tribute. 

O, where is loyalty? If it be banished from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbor in the earth? 

Unkindness may do much; And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love. 

Nay, ’tis in a manner done already; For many carriages he hath dispatched To the seaside, and put his cause and quarrel To the disposing of the cardinal; With whom yourself, myself, and other lords, If you think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily. 

How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heartburned an hour after. 

O, here come my nurse, And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence. 

If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father. 

It was about to speak, when the cock crew, And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. 

I’ll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes. 

Well, if my wind were but long enough [to say my prayers], I would repent. 

As false As air, as water, as wind, as sandy earth; As fox to lamb; as wolf to heifer’s calf; Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son. 

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, Art thou damned, Hubert. 

My salad days, When I was green in judgment, cold in blood, To say as I said then. 

Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe; but your ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith. 

I hate him for he is a Christian: But more, for that, in low simplicity, He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 

Minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass’d over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this! 

Good Sir John, I sue for yours – not to charge you – for I must let you understand I think myself in better plight for a lender than you are, the which hath something emboldened me to this unseasoned intrusion; for they say if money go before, all ways do lie open. 

Why then, God’s soldier be he. Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death: And so his knell in knolled. 

So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kinds of arguments and question deep, All replication prompt and reason strong, For his advantage still did wake and sleep. To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep, He had the dialect and different skill, Catching all passions in his craft of will;… 

Our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues. 

A little gale will soon disperse that cloud And blow it to the source from whence it came. Thy very beams will dry those vapors up, For every cloud engenders not a storm. 

I am not prone to weeping as our sex commonly are; the want of which vain dew perchance shall dry your pities; but I have that honorable grief lodged here which burns worse than tears drown. 

For you know, nuncle, The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long That it’s had it head bit off by it young. 

Tis your noblest course: Wisdom and fortune combating together, If that the former dare but what it can, No chance may shake it. 

O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-toothed unkindness, like a vulture, here. 

Ten day ago I drowned these news in tears; And now, to add more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befallen. 

The best way is to slander Valentine with falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, – three things that women highly hold in hate. 

Even here undone! I was not much afeard; for once or twice I was about to speak and tell him plainly The selfsame sun that shines upon his court Hides not his visage from our cottage but Looks on alike. 

O, what a mansion have those vices got Which for their habitation chose out thee, Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot And all things turns to fair that eyes can see! 

Some grief shows much of love; But much of grief shows still some want of wit. 

Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love’s settled passions in my heart. 

We but teach Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor. 

Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think’st him wronged, and mak’st his ear A stranger to thy thoughts. 

(Berowne:) What is the end of study, let me know? (King:) What, that to know which else we should not know. (Berowne:) Things hid and barred, you mean, from common sense? (King:) Ay, that is study’s godlike recompense. 

A red morn that ever yet betoken’d Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gust and foul flaws to herdsmen and to herds. 

So Judas kiss’d his Master, And cried – All hail! when as he meant – all harm. 

Her gentle spirit commits itself to yours to be directed, as from her lord, her governor, her king. 

But I perceive Men must learn now with pity to dispense; For policy sits above conscience. 

Contemplation makes a rare turkey cock of him. How he jets under his advanced plumes! 

Muster your wits; stand in your own defense, Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence. 

But say, my lord, it were not regist’red, Methinks the truth should live from age to age, As ’twere retailed to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day. 

Instructed by the antiquary times, He must, he is, he cannot but be wise. 

What if this cursed hand Where thicker than itself with brother’s blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? 

Alas! sir, In what have I offended you? What cause Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure? 

If you had won it, certainly you had. No, no; when fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threat’ning eye. 

May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode! But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves. 

Such a house broke? So noble a master fall’n; all gone, and not One friend to take his fortune by the arm And go along with him? 

This senior junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid: Regent of love rhymes, lord of folded arms. The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents. 

I cannot give thee less, to be called grateful. Thou thought’st to help me, and such thanks I give As one near death to those that wish him live. 

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 overrunning. 

Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours; For time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by th’ hand, And with arms outstretched, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer. The welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. 

There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still; For goodness, growing to a plurisy, Dies in his own too-much. 

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

Now if you can blush and cry guilty, cardinal You’ll show a little honesty. 

But in this point All his tricks founder and he brings his physic After his patient’s death: the king already Hath married the fair lady. 

They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that in guess they measure by thy deeds; Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind, To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: But why thy odor matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost common grow. 

Nay, now you are too flat, And mar the concord with too harsh a descant. 

Mine honor’s such a ring; My chastity’s the jewel of our house, Bequeathed down from many ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquy i’ th’ world In me to lose. 

A man, young lady! lady, such a man As all the world – why he’s a man of wax. 

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardoned, and some punished; For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. 

By this good light, this is a very shallow monster! I afeard of him? A very weak monster! The Man i’ th’ Moon? A most poor credulous monster! – Well drawn, monster, in good sooth! 

To willful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters. 

Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords! 

That it may please you leave these sad designs To him that hath most cause to be a mourner, And presently repair to Crosby House; Where – after I have solemnly interred At Chertsey monast’ry with noble king – And wet his grave with my repentant tears – I will with all expedient duty see you. 

Mad let us grant him them, and now remains That we find out the cause of this effect – Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause. Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. 

They were all like one another as halfpence are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it. 

Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds; love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

Death my lord, Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to ‘t That sure th’ have worn out Christendom. 

The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love. A second time I kill my husband dead When second husband kisses me in bed. 

Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me. 

Some guard these traitors to the block of death, Treason’s true bed and yielder up of breath. 

It is meet that noble minds keep over with their likes; for who so firm, that cannot be seduced? 

And his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. 

That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; So shall you share all that he doth possess, By having him making yourself no less. 

God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks. 

O, would the deed were good! For now the devil, that told me that I did well, Says that this deed is chronicled in hell. 

The woosel cock so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill – … The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo grey, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay. 

She is peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty; Neither regarding that she is my child, Nor fearing me as if I were her father. 

If I can do it By aught that I can speak in his dispraise, She shall not long continue love to him. 

Are you call’d forth from out a world of men, To slay the innocent? 

O gentle lady, do not put me to’t, For I am nothing if not critical. 

The learned pate Ducks to the golden fool. All’s obliquy; There’s nothing level in our cursed natures But direct villainy. 

The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, And ready mounted are they to spit forth Their iron indignation ‘gainst your walls. 

Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate. 

Well, for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. 

Lay on, Macduff, And damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough! 

If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair And make me seated heart knock at my ribs Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings. 

The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And Nature must obey necessity. 

What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a king, and now is clay! 

But that your royal pleasure must be done, This act is as an ancient tale new told, And in the last repeating troublesome, Being urged at a time unreasonable. 

I do believe (Induced by potent circumstances) that You are mine enemy; and make my challenge You shall not be my judge. 

Preposterous ass, that never read so far To know the cause why music was ordained! Was it not to refresh the mind of man After his studies or his usual pain? 

You may ride us with one soft kiss a thousand furlongs, ere with spur we heat an acre. 

If it be you that stirs these daughters’ hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, And let not women’s weapons, water drops, Stain my man’s cheeks. 

If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps… an hour in clamor and a quarter in rheum. 

It is far off; and rather like a dream than an assurance that my remembrance warrants. 

She would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. 

The king is come. Deal mildly with his youth; For young hot colts, being raged, do rage the more. 

But thus: if powers divine Behold our human actions, as they do, I doubt not then but innocence shall make False accusation blush and tyranny Tremble at patience. 

O proud Death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck? 

When the hurlyburly is done, When the battle’s lost and won. 

And all those sayings will I over swear, And all those swearings keep as true in soul As doth that orbed continent the fire That severs day from night. 

There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me. 

Methought the billows spoke and told me of it; The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder, The deep and dreadful organ pipe, pronounced The name of Prosper; it did bass my compass. 

Yet be sad, good brothers, For, by my faith, it very well becomes you. Sorrow so royally in you appears That I will deeply put the fashion on And wear it in my heart. 

All the contagion of the south light on you, You shames of Rome! you herd of – boils and plagues Plaster you o’er; that you may be abhorr’d Further than seen, and one infect another Against the wind a mile! 

You have heard of the news abroad – I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments? 

I give this heavy weight from off my head And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand, The pride of kingly sway from out my heart. With mine own tears I wash away my balm, With mine own hands I give away my crown, With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, With mine own breath release all duty’s rites. 

(King Ferdinand:) In love, I hope – sweet fellowship in shame! (Berowne:) One drunkard loves another of the name. 

I drink to the general joy o” the whole table.” Macbeth 

You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man, a proper man as one shall see in a summer’s day, a most lovely gentlemanlike man. 

He is not worthy of the honeycomb That shuns the hive because the bees have stings. 

Nay, but do so then; and look you, he may come and go between you both; and in any case have a nay-word, that you may know one another’s mind, and the boy never need to understand anything; for ’tis not good that children should know any wickedness. Old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world. 

Man, proud man! Dress’d 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. 

Mark but my fall and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition! By that sin fell the angels; how can man then (The Image of his Maker) hope to win by it? 

Her only fault – and that is faults enough – Is that she is intolerable curst, And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure, That were my state far worser than it is I would not wed her for a mine of gold. 

Contention, like a horse, Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose, And bears down all before him. 

All swol’n with chafing, down Adonis sits, Banning his boist’rous and unruly beast; And now the happy season once more fits That lovesick Love by pleading may be blest; For lovers say the heart hath treble wrong When it is barred the aidance of the tongue. 

To feed were best at home; From thence, the sauce is meat to ceremony: Meeting were bare without it. 

In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offence should bear his comment. 

He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit; For ’tis a throne where honor may be crowned Sole monarch of the universal earth. 

Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me. 

Now were not I a little pot and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me. 

Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer – you gave me nothing for’t. 

Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles And waste the time which looks for other revels. 

Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald me like molten lead. 

Go in and cheer the town. We’ll forth and fight; Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night. 

Why, who cries out on pride That can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea Till that the weary very means do ebb? 

If little faults proceeding on distemper Shall not be winked at, how shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chewed, swallowed, and digested, Appear before us? 

Like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. 

Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge, Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, Whose top-branch overpeered Jove’s spreading tree And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind. 

Those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behavior of the country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court but you kiss your hands. That courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds. 

Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temp’red with Love’s sighs; O, then his lines would ravish savage ears And plant in tyrants mild humility. 

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, It is ten o’clock: Thus we may see, quoth he, how the world wags. 

Her very silence, and her patience, Speak to the people, and they pity her. 

Anger’s my meat. I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding. 

I am asham’d, that women are so simple To offer war, where they should kneel for peace Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. 

Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young. 

Me of my lawful pleasure she restrained And prayed me oft forbearance – did it with A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on’t Might well have warmed old Saturn – that I thought her As chaste as unsunned snow. 

Here’s another ballad of a fish that appeared upon the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard heart of maids. It was though she was a woman and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her. 

After them? Nay, before them, if we can. Now, by my faith, lords, ’twas a glorious day. Saint Albans battle, won by famous York, Shall be eternalized in all age to come. Sound drum and trumpets, and to London all; And more such days as these to us befall! 

I go, and it is done. The bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. 

Here’s the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. 

Great griefs, I see, med’cine the less, for Cloten Is quite forgot. 

I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here; Pierced to the soul with slander’s venomed spear, The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breathed this poison. 

Shall they hoist me up And show me to the shouting varletry Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt Be gentle grave unto me! Rather on Nilus’ mud Lay me stark-nak’d and let the waterflies Blow me into abhorring! Rather make My country’s high pyramides my gibbet And hang me up in chains! 

Tut, tut! good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder. They’ll fill a pit as well as better. 

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. 

And in conclusion she shall watch all night, And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl And with the clamor keep her still awake. This is a way to kill a wife with kindness, And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humor. 

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, That all with one consent praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o’er-dusted. 

His legs bestrid the ocean: his reared arm Crested the world: his voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. 

It is gold which buys admittance; and it is gold which makes the true man killed, and saves the thief; nay, sometimes hangs both thief and true man; what can it not do and undo? 

O place and greatness! millions of false eyes Are stuck upon thee; volumes of reports Run with these false and most contrarious quests Upon thy doings: thousand escapes of wit Make thee the father of their idle dream, And wrack thee in their fancies. 

Love’s heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams Driving back shadows over low’ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. 

Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles. Infected minds To their deaf pillow will discharge their secrets. 

An oak whose boughs were mossed with age, and high top bald with dry antiquity. 

I have heard that guilty creatures sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene, Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaimed their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. 

But jealous souls will not be answered so; They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they’re jealous. ‘Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself. 

Your daughter here the princess (left for dead), Let her awhile be secretly kept in, And publish it that she is dead indeed; Maintain a mourning ostentation, And on your family’s old monument Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites That appertain unto a burial. 

I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name. 

They do not abuse the king that flatter him. For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; The thing the which is flattered, but a spark To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing; Whereas reproof, obedient and in order, Fits kings as they are men, for they may err. 

The heart hath treble wrong When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue. 

At land indeed Thou dost o’ercount me of my father’s house: But since the cuckoo builds not for himself, Remain in’t as thou mayst. 

Bid them come forth and hear me, Or at their chamber door I’ll beat the drum Till it cry sleep to death. 

The spring, the summer, the chill autumn, angry winter, change their wonted liveries. 

Truth is a dog that must to kennel. He must be whipped, when Lady, the brach, may stand by the fire and stink. 

Didst them never hear That things ill got had ever bad success? 

When impious men bear sway, the post of honor is a private station. 

You have a nimble wit; I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s heels. 

Thou villain base, Know’st me not by my clothes? No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather; he made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee. 

Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed king: The breath of worldly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord. 

These exactions whereof my sovereign would have note, they are most pestilent to the hearing; and, to bear ’em, the back is sacrifice to the load. 

Although The air of paradise did fan the house, And angels offic’d all; I will be gone. 

Like bright metal on a sullen ground, my reformation, glittering over my fault, shall show more goodly and attract more eyes than that which hath no foil to set it off. 

Marry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannt lick his own fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. 

My crown I am, but still my griefs are mine. You may my glories and my state depose, But not my griefs. Still am I king of those. 

Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise. 

(Other Clown:) But is this law? (Clown:) Ay marry, is’t – crowner’s quest law. 

I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hanged. not never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess say welcome. 

He’s a soldier fit to stand by Caesar And give direction; and do but see his vice. 

And then, the justice; In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances, And so he plays his part. 

Pluck up thy spirits, look cheerfully upon me. Here, love, thou seest how diligent I am To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee. 

You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such sights And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks When mine is blanched with fear. 

Live loath’d and long, Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites, Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, You fools of fortune, trencher friends, time flies Cap and knee slaves, vapors, and minute jacks. 

Experience is a jewel, and it had need be so, for it is often purchased at an infinite rate. 

That is my home of love: if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged. 

(Leonato:) Did he break into tears? (Messenger:) In great measure. (Leonato:) A kind overflow of kindness. There are no faces truer than those that are so washed. How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping! 

O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure! 

The bloody spur cannot provoke him on That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, Which heavily he answers with a groan, More sharp to me than spurring to his side; For that same groan doth put this in my mind: My grief lies onward and my joy behind. 

There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamor moistened; then away she started To deal with grief alone. 

But, soft: behold! lo, where it comes again! I’ll cross it, though it blast me. – Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use a voice, Speak to me. 

Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth Is with a kind of colic pinched and vexed By the imprisoning of unruly wind Within the womb, which, for enlargement striving, Shakes the old beldame earth and topples down Steeples and mossgrown towers. 

O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear! 

Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green, Or, like a nymph, with long dishevelled hair, Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen. Love is a spirit all compact of fire, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. 

If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. 

Let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings: How some have been depos’d, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d, Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill’d, All murder’d. 

In Troy there likes the scene. From isles of Greece The princes orgulous, their high blood chafed, Have to the port of Athens sent their ships, Fraught with the ministers and instruments Of cruel war. 

No, Antony, take the lot: But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar Grew faw with feasting there. 

O, that a man might know The end of this day’s business, ere it come, But it sufficeth that the day will end; And then the end is known. 

I must not think there are Evils enow to darken all his goodness: His faults, in him, seem as the spots of heaven, More fiery by night’s blackness; hereditary Rather than purchased, what he cannot change Than what he chooses. 

Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth. 

This the soldier’s life, To have their balmy slumbers wak’d with strife. 

What, have I ‘scaped love letters in the holiday time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? 

But, O thou tyrant, Do not repent these things, for they are heavier Than all thy woes can stir. Therefore betake thee To nothing but despair. 

Let him that is a true-born gentleman And stands upon the honor of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. 

Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm To make bad good, and good provoke to harm. 

One that goes with him; I love him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward. Yet these fixed evils sit so fit in him That they take place when virtue’s steely bones Look bleak i’ th’ cold wind; withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly. 

Cry woe, destruction, ruin, and decay: The worst is death, and death will have his day. 

Whence is that knocking? How is’t with me, when every noise appals me? 

Which dreams indeed are ambition, for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. 

Alas, how is’t with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? 

Nay, it is ten times true, for truth is truth To th’ end of reck’ning. 

See where she comes, apparelled like the spring, Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king Of every virtue gives renown to men! 

O Hamlet, speak no more. Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct. 

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That sucked the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason Like sweet bells jangled, out of time and harsh, That unmatched form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy. 

Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, Shamed their aspects with store of childish drops: These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear 

Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we march’d on without impediment. 

O melancholy, Who ever yet could sound thy bottom, find The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare Might eas’liest harbor in? 

Forgive me this is my virtue. For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good. 

He will steal himself into a man’s favor and for a week escape a great of discoveries; but when you find out, you have him ever after. 

O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation! 

Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try. 

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

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, That two red fires in both faces blazed. She thought he blushed as knowing Tarquin’s lust, And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed; Her earnest eye did make him more amazed. 

O villainy! Ho! let the door be lock’d. Treachery! seek it out. 

Why, let the stricken deer go weep, The heart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep; Thus runs the world away. 

I not deny, The jury passing on the prisoner’s life May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two Guiltier than him they try; what’s open made to justice, That justice seizes; what knows the laws That thieves do pass on thieves? 

But to the purpose – for we cite our faults That they may hold excused our lawless lives; And partly, seeing you are beautified With goodly shape, and by your own report A linguist, and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want 

I will be hanged if some eternal villain, Some busy and insinuating rogue, Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office, Have not devised this slander. 

O polish’d perturbation! golden care! That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night! sleep with it now! Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet As he whose brow with homely biggen bound Snores out the watch of night. 

And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil – By telling truth. Tell truth and shame the devil. If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, And I’ll be sworn I have power to shame him hence. O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil! 

From his cradle He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one, Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that loved him not, But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. 

Say there be; Yet nature is made better by no mean But nature makes that mean. So, over that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. 

When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, But creep in crannies when he hides his beams. 

Take your paper too, And let me have them very well perfumed, For she is sweeter than perfume itself To whom they go. 

Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh Was that it was for not being such a smile; The smile mocking the sigh that it would fly From so divine a temple to commix With winds that sailors rail at. 

Lord, lord, how this world is given to lying. I grant you I was down, and out of breath, and so was he; but we rose both at an instant and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. 

A daughter, and a goodly babe, Lusty and like to live. The queen receives Much comfort in’t, says, ‘My poor prisoner, I am innocent as you. 

They say that they have measured many a mile, To tread a measure with you on this grass. 

Tis plate of rare device and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great, And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in sale stowage. 

Authority bears of a credent bulk That no particular scandal once can touch;; But it confounds the breather. 

For I am that way going to temptation, Where prayers cross. 

Many a time and oft Have you climbed up to walls and battlements, To tow’rs and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day, with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. 

Now the time is come, That France must veil her lofty-plumed crest, And let her head fall into England’s lap. 

Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crowned King Of France and England, did this king succeed; Whose state so many had the managing That they lost France and made his England bleed: Which oft our stage hath shown; and for their sake, In your fair minds let this acceptance take. 

Since you will buckle fortune on my back, To bear her burden whe’r I will or no, I must have patience to endure the load. 

Ram thou fruitful tidings in mine ears, That long time have been barren. 

And in his brain, Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit After a voyage, he hath strange places crammed With observation, the which he vents In mangled forms. 

I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as myself. 

England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune. 

Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell! That my keen knife see not the wound it makes Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, hold, hold! 

We must not rend our subjects from our laws, and stick them in our will. Sixth part of each? A trembling contribution! Why, we take from every tree lop, bark, and part o’ the timber; and though we leave it with a root thus hacked, the air will drink the sap. 

Thou wear a lion’s hide! doff it for shame, And hang a calf’s skin on those recreant limbs. 

O, fie, fie, fie! Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade; Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd, ‘Tis best that thou diest quickly. 

O, ’tis the cunning livery of hell, The damned’st body to invest and cover In princely guards. 

You are not to be taught That you have many enemies that know not Why they are so, but like to village curs Bark when their fellows do. 

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. 

Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright; to have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mock’ry. 

What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win. 

Do but see his vice; ‘t is to his virtue a just virtue a just equinox, the one as long as the other. 

Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry cock-a-diddle-dowe. 

You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please. 

These high wild hills and rough uneven ways Draws out our miles and makes them wearisome; And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, Making the hard way sweet and delectable. 

I am on fire To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh, And yet not ours. 

Here feel we not the penalty of Adam; The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say ‘This is no flattery’; these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am. 

But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft Quenched in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon, And the imperial vot’ress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 

Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. 

What have I done, that thou dar’st wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me? 

That blind, rascally boy that abuses every one’s eyes, because his own are out. 

Whip me, ye devils, Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur, Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire. 

Affliction may one day smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sorrow! 

O, answer me: Let me not burst in ignorance! but tell, Why thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements! why the sepulchre Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urn’d, Hath op’d his ponderous and marble laws, To cast thee up again? 

Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so. 

Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wann’d,… 

Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. If you sorrow at my grief in live, My giving love your sorrow and my grief Were both extermined. 

Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can Her heart inform her tongue – the swan’s down-feather That stands upon the swell at full of tide, And neither way inclines. 

Nephew, what means this passionate discourse, This peroration with such circumstance? For France, ’tis ours; and we will keep it still. 

Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of saltness of time in you; and I most humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverent care of your health. 

Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. 

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. 

Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog. 

Whose nature is so far from doing harms, That he suspects none. 

What’s the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak! 

Death, as the psalmist with, is certain to all; all shall die. 

But we all are men, In our own natures frail; and capable Of our flesh, few are angels. 

(Petruchio:) It shall be what o’clock I say it is. (Hortensio:) Why, so this gallant will command the sun. 

There is none but he Whose being I do fear; and under him My genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. 

Tis often seen Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds A native slip to us from foreign lands. 

For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl; He that stirs next to carve for his own rage, Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion. 

Fate, show your force; ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be – and be this so! 

Vows are but breath, and breath a vapor is: Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine, Exhal’st this vapor-now; in thee it is. If broken then, it is no fault of mine; If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To lose an oath to win a paradise? 

Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven or in hell! 

If you bethink yourself of any crime Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight. 

O brother, speak with possibility, And do not break into these deep extremes. 

Those men who destroy a healthful constitution of body by intemperance and an irregular life do as manifestly kill themselves as those who hang or poison or drown themselves. 

He gives the bastinado with his tongue; Our ears are cudgell’d; not a word of his, But buffets better than a fist of France: Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words, Since I first called my brother’s father, dad. 

But yet, – I do not like but yet, it does allay The good precedence; fye upon but yet; But yet is as a gaoler to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. 

All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him. 

As I do live by food, I met a fool Who laid him down and basked him in the sun And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms, and yet a motley fool. 

Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipped of justice. 

No, madam, ’tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned; but if I may have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may. 

Thou say’st his meat was sauced with thy upbradings; Unquiet meals make ill digestions; Thereof the raging fire of fever bred. 

His great offence is dead, And deeper than oblivion do we bury The incensing relics of it. 

Short time seems long in sorrow’s sharp sustaining; though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps, and they who watch see time how slow it creeps. 

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose, With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed, And in my standard bear the arms of York To grapple with the house of Lancaster; And force perforce I’ll make him yield the crown Whose bookishrule hath pulled fair England down. 

The mercy that was quick in us but late, By your own counsel is suppressed and killed. You must not dare for shame to talk of mercy; For your own reasons turn into your bosoms As dogs upon their masters, worrying you. 

It is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself; it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest. 

Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? 

My May of life is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf; and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but in their stead, curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath which the poor heart would fain deny and dare not. 

You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a forset-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. 

The love of wicked men converts to fear; That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death. 

He that keeps nor crust nor crumb, Weary of all shall want some. 

This is the very ecstasy of love, Whose violent property fordoes itself And leads the will to desperate undertakings As oft as any passion under heaven That does afflict our natures. 

I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina. 

Before thee stands this fair Hesperides, With golden fruit, but dangerous to be touched; For death-like dragons here affright thee hard. 

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

His eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible, He wrung Bassanio’s hand; and so they parted. 

Who can speak broader than he that has no house to put his head in? – Such may rail against great buildings. 

If this letter move him not, his legs cannot. I’ll give’t him. 

Tongues I’ll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show… 

This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With good appetite. 

Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood, is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes, Which thou dost glare with! 

The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel. 

I have seen tempests, when the scalding winds Have riv’d the knotty oaks; and I have seen The ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, To be exalted with the threat’ning clouds; But never till to-night, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 

O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword, Th’ expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, Th’ observed of all observers, quite, quite down! 

O Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

There are a sort of men, whose visages Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond; And do a willful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity profound conceit; As who should say, I am sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark! 

And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor. 

What is the matter, that this distempered messenger of wet, the many-colored Iris, rounds thine eye? 

The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow. 

It is the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman Which gives the stern’st good-night. 

How irksome is this music to my heart! When such strings jar, what hope of harmony? 

Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye; ‘Tis pretty, sure, and very probable, That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomies, Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers. 

O my good lord, that comfort comes too late, ‘Tis like a pardon after execution. That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me; But now I am past all comforts here but prayers. 

He hath resisted law; And therefore law shall scorn him further trial Than the severity of the public power, Which he so sets at nought. 

Such a noise arose as the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, as loud and to as many tunes, – hats, cloaks, doublets, I think, flew up; and had their faces been loose, this day they had been lost. 

Hadst not thou been by, A fellow by the hand of nature marked, Quoted and signed to do a deed of shame, This murder had not come into my mind;… 

Kings and mightiest potentates must die, For that’s the end of human misery. 

Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.(Shakespeare} Hoy-day, what a sweep of vanity comes this way! 

What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot, away? 

O, it comes over my memory, as doth the raven over the infected house, boding to all. 

The blind monster with uncounted heads, the still discordant, wavering multitude. 

Foul fiend of France and hag of all despite, Encompassed with thy lustful paramours, Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age And twit with cowardice a man half dead? 

I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. 

Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, For villany is not without such rheum. 

We will ourself in person to this war; And, for our coffers, with too great a court And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light, We are enforced to farm our royal realm, The revenue whereof shall furnish us For our affairs in hand. 

Then, dear my liege, mine honor let me try; In that I live, and for that will I die. 

Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum, you are he; graces will appear, and there’s an end. 

There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for o’ my conscience twenty of the dog-days now reign in’s nose. 

Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Ang’ring itself and others. 

By noting of the lady I have mark’d A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames, In angel whiteness bear away those blushes. 

There is no time so miserable but a man may be true. 

There is not such a word Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear. 

Play with your fancies, and in them behold Upon the hempen tackle shipboys climbing; Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails, Borne with th’ invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea, Breasting the lofty surge. 

Yea, and so used it that, were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent – But I prithee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art King? and of resolution thus fubbed as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hand a thief. 

To show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and presence. 

Govern these ventages with your fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. 

Pacing through the forest, Chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy. 

But since the affairs of men rests still incertain, Let’s reason with the worst that may befall. 

Myself, myself confound! Heaven, and fortune, bar me happy hours! Day, yield me not thy light; nor night, thy rest! Be opposite all planets of good luck To my proceeding, if, with pure heart’s love, Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts, I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter! 

Alas! he has banish’d me his bed already; His love too long ago: I am old, my lords, And all the fellowship I hold now with him Is only my obedience. What can happen To me, above this wretchedness? 

Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false I am loath to prove reason with them. 

Our poesy is as a Gum, which oozes From whence ’tis nourish’d: The fire i’ the flint Shows not till it be struck; our gentle Flame Provokes itself, and, like the current, flies Each bound it chafes. 

As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another; The third o’ th’ world is yours, which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife. 

Daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, Or Cytherea’s breath. 

Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures, And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it. 

You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary, Come hither from the furrow and be merry. Make holiday: your rye-straw hats put on, And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing. 

This act is an ancient tale new told; And, in the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable. 

the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness. 

But those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, if was Greek to me. 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace To silence envious tongues. 

They say the tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony. 

I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire, But qualify the fire’s extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. 

That instant shut My woeful self up in a mourning house, Raining the tears of lamentation. 

Mend when thou canst, be better at thy leisure; I can be patient, I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights. 

But he that hath the steerage of my course Direct my sail! 

Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross, And water cannot wash away your sin. 

For ’tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petar, and ‘t shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon. 

One fire burns out another’s burning, One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish; Turn giddy and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cures with another’s languish. 

The honor of a maid is her name, and no legacy is so rich as honesty. 

What think you, if he were conveyed to bed, Wrapped in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, A most delicious banquet by his bed, And brave attendants near him when he wakes, Would not the beggar then forget himself? 

Thus I clothe my naked villany with old odd ends, stolen out of holy writ; and seem a saint when most I play the devil. 

Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain: I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant. 

If but a dozen French Were there in arms, they would be as a call To train ten thousand English to their side, Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain. 

I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere; for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. 

This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world. 

Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none. My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites: How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent! 

Authority, though it err like others, hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, that skins the vice of the top. 

You have seen Sunshine and rain at once – her smiles and tears Were like, a better way: those happy smilets That played on her ripe lip seemed not to know What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropped. 

Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say, Two may keep counsel, putting one away? 

The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, Check’ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light; And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels. 

Villains, vipers, damn’d without redemption; Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man; Snakes in my heart-blood warm’d, that sing my heart; Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas. 

If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me; For such as I am all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else Save in the constant image of the creature That is beloved. 

O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘how much a fool was I To be of such a weak and silly mind To wail his death who lives, and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind! For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. 

Without the bed her other fair hand was, On the green coverlet; whose perfect white Showed like an April daisy on the grass, With pearly sweat resembling dew of night. 

What rein can bold licentious wickedness, when down the hill he holds his fierce career? 

It may be right, but you are i’ the wrong To speak before your time; proceed. 

I had a thing to say, But I will fit it with some better tune. 

Conscience is but a word that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe. 

I tell thee, Kate, ’twas burnt and dried away, And I expressly am forbid to touch it, For it engenders choler, planteth anger, And better ’twere that both of us did fast, Since of ourselves, ourselves are choleric, Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. 

Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value Than stamps in gold or sums in sealed bags; And ’tis the very riches of thyself That now I aim at. 

I go, I go, look how I go, Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow. 

In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigged, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats Instinctively have quit it. 

I see men’s judgments are A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them To suffer all alike. 

We never valued this poor seat of England, And therefore, living hence, did give ourself To barbarous license; as ’tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home. 

She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man. She thanked me; And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. 

I had not so much of man in me, And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears. 

The canker blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer’s breath their masked buds discloses; But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwooed and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. 

Universal plodding prisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries; As motion, and long-during action tires The sinewy vigor of the traveller. 

Shall I say to Caesar What you require of him? For he partly begs To be desired to give. It much would please him That of his fortunes you should make a staff To lean upon. 

Go back; the virtue of your name Is not here passable. 

It fits thee not to ask the reason why: Because we bid it. 

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war, And thus hath so bestirr’d thee in thy sleep That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow Like bubbles in a fate-disturbed stream And in thy face strange motions have appear’d, Such as we see when men restrain their breath On some great sudden haste. 

Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause; But rather reason thus with reason fetter, Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. 

On a day (alack the day!) Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air. Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wished himself the heaven’s breath. 

Black is the badge of hell, The hue of dungeons, and the school of night; And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well. 

Why this it is, when men are ruled by women: ‘Tis not the kind that sends you to the Tower; My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, ’tis she That tempers him to this extremity. 

O, what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal! 

He stopp’d the fliers: And, by his rare example, made the coward Turn terror into sport; as waves before A vessel under sail, so men obey’d, And fell below his stem. 

But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, ‘That’s good that’s gone. 

Is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful? Or is the adder better than the eel because his painted skin contents the eye? 

They come like sacrifices in their trim, And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war All hot and bleeding will we offer them. 

Nay, had I pow’r, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. 

And, to add greater honors to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God. 

Fast asleep? IT is no matter. Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber. Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep’st so sound. 

Sir, I am a true laborer; I earn that I eat, get that I wear, no man hate, envy no man’s happiness, glad of other men’s good, with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck. 

At once, good night – Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once. 

I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d, Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar. 

Besides, you know Prosperity’s the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters. 

Tis burnt, and so is all the meat. What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook? How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, And serve it thus to me that love it not? 

It shall be so. Madness in great ones must not unwatched go. 

But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth; His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles, His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. 

Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike. 

I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course. 

Alas! to make me The fixed figure of the time, for scorn To point his slow and moving finger at. 

A sceptre snatched with an unruly hand Must be as boisterously maintained as gained, And he that stands upon a slippery place Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up. 

If thou neglect’st or dolt unwillingly What I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps; Fill all thy bones with aches; make thee roar That beasts shall tremble at thy din. 

And if you can be merry then, I’ll say A man may weep upon his wedding day. 

Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All many be well. 

Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan, puffing at all, winnows the light away. 

With him Patroclus Upon a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks scurril jests, And with ridiculous and silly action, (Which, slanderer, he imitation calls) He pageants us. 

The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy. His legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure. 

But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens! 

My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, Two traded pilots ‘twixt the dangerous shores, Of will and judgment. 

Love thyself last, cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

This diamond he greets your wife withal By the name of most kind hostess, and shut up In measureless content. 

Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile, And cry ‘Content!’ to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face to all occasions. 

Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds. 

Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; But God he knows thy share thereof is small ‘Tis virtue that doth make them most admired; The contrary doth make thee wond’red at. ‘Tis government that makes them seem divine; The want thereof makes thee abominable. 

I hate ingratitude more in a man Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, Or any taint of vie whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood. 

Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall t’ expel the winter’s flaw! 

They that have voice of lions and act of hares, – are they not monsters? 

Ay,’ quoth my uncle Gloucester, ‘Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.’ And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast, Because sweet flow’rs are slow and weeds make haste. 

Her hand, in whose comparison all whites are ink writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure the cygnets down is harsh, and spirit of sense hard as the palm of ploughman! 

It is a creature That dotes on Cassio, as ’tis the strumpet’s plague To beguile many and be beguiled by one. 

Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity (So it be new, there’s no respect how vile) That is not quickly buzzed into his ears? 

Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side, Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength, And dost thou now fall over to my foes? Thou wear a lion’s hide! Doff it for shame, And hang a calfskin on those recreant limbs. 

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou, That, notwithstanding thy capacity, Receiveth as the sea. Nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soe’er, But falls into abatement and low price Even in a minute. 

You must not think That we are made of stuff so fat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger, And think it pastime. 

Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will unloose Familiar as his garter; that when he speaks, The air, a chartered libertine, is still, And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears To steal his sweet and honeyed sentences;… 

You know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go. 

The bird that hath been limed in a bush With trembling wing misdoubteth every bush. 

A book? O, rare one, Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. 

Fortune knows We scorn her most when most she offers blows. 

Your honor call you hence; Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, And all the gods go with you. Upon your sword Sit laurel victory, and smooth success Be strewed before your feet! 

I met the youthful lord at Laurence’ cell And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty. 

The sweets we wish for, turn to loathed sours, Even in the moment that we call them ours. 

O, here comes my nurse, And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence. 

As sweet and musical As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair; And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. 

It is enthroned in the heart of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice. 

So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness Pursued him still; and three nights after this, After the hour of eight, which he himself Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears and sorrows, He gave his honors to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. 

I’ll talk a word with this same learned Theban. What is your study? 

Oh, give me thy hand, one writ with me in sour misfortune’s book. 

Let’s march without the noise of threat’ning drum, That from this castle’s tottered battlements Our fair appointments may be well perused. 

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? 

These two have ticed me hither to this place, A barren detested vale you see it is; The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, Overcome with moss and baleful mistletoe. 

All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral – Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; And all things change them to the contrary. 

Thus Suffolk hath prevailed; and thus he goes, As did the youthful Paris once to Greece, With hope to find the like event of love But prosper better than the Trojan did. Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the king; But I will rule both her, the king, and realm. 

His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, If this be he you oft have wished to hear from. 

He did request me to importune you, To let him spend his time no more at home, Which would be great impeachment to his age, In having known no travel in his youth. 

Lay her in the earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring. 

The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down. 

Ay, sir, but ‘while the grass grows’- the proverb is something musty. 

Come, now a roundel and a fairy song; Then, for the third part of a minute, hence – Some to kill canters in the musk-rose buds, Some war with reremice for their leathren wings, To make my small elves coats, and some keep back The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits. 

The cripple, tardy-gaited night, who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp so tediously away. 

Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprizing what they look on; and her wit Values itself so highly that to her All matter else seems weak. 

What would you have? Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness. 

But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, and leave them honeyless. 

See what a grace was seated on this brow: Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill – A combination and a form indeed Where every god did seem to set his seal To give the world assurance of a man. 

This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can avenge. 

Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe; whose strength I will confirm with oath, which I doubt not You’ll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not. 

And wer’t not madness then To make the fox surveyor of the fold. 

They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud’st wind That by the top doth take the mountain pine And make him stoop to th’ vale. 

When I was at home, I was in a better place, but travelers must be content. 

True, I talk of dreams; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy; Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the North And, being angered, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dripping South. 

When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say ‘Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on’s neck,’ even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. 

Shine comforts from the east, That I may back to Athens by daylight From these that my poor company detest; And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company. 

I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority: To do a great right, do a little wrong. 

This day I breathed first. Time is come around, And where I did begin, that shall I end. My life is run his compass. 

And steal immortal kisses from her lips; which even in pure and vestal modesty still blush as thinking their own kisses sin. 

I know not why I love this youth, and I have heard you say Love’s reason’s without reason. 

It is now the very witching time of night; when churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood, and do such business as the bitter day would quake to look on. 

Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks, Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits To laughter and contempt, that she may feel How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child. 

This is the most despiteful gentle greeting, The noblest hateful love, that e’er I heard of. 

May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? 

On your eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, Making such difference ‘twixt wake and sleep As is the difference betwixt day and night The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team Begins his golden progress in the east. 

And her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece. 

There grows In my most ill-compos’d affection such A stanchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands. 

His worst fault is, that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that way, but nobody but has his fault. But let that pass. 

It is the stars, The stars above us govern our conditions; Else one self mate and make could not beget Such different issues. 

How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears! 

We are all bastards, And that most venerable man which I Did call my father was I know not where When I was stamped. Some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seemed The Dian of that time. 

Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed. 

And, being fed by us, you used us so As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird, Useth the sparrow – did oppress our nest;… 

Chide him for faults, and do it reverently, When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth, But, being moody, give him time and scope, Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, Confound themselves with working. 

You, sir, I entertain for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments. 

The prince of darkness is a gentleman. Modo he’s called, and Mahu. 

Here, here, and everywhere, he leaves and takes, Dexterity so obeying appetite That what he will he does, and does so much That proof is called impossibility. 

But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and fortune joined to make thee great. 

Proper deformity seems not in the fiend so horrid as in woman. 

I passed (methought) the melancholy flood, With that sour ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 

Hostess, clap to the doors. Watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? Shall we have a play extempore. 

Our foster nurse of nature is repose, The which he lacks. That to provoke in him Are many simples operative, whose power Will close the eye of anguish. 

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I’ll wink and couch; no man their works must eye. 

How hast thou purchased this experience? By my penny of observation. 

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

Fates, we will know your pleasures. That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time, And drawing days out, that men stand upon. 

I do not like ‘but yet, it does allay The good precedence: fie upon ‘but yet,’ ‘But yet’ is as a jailer to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. 

O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence Love takes the meaning in love’s conference. 

What’ s past, and what’s to come, is strew’d with husks, And formless ruin of oblivion. 

In persons grafted in a serious trust, Negligence is a crime. 

One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know himself. 

All is whole; Not one word more of the consumed time. Let’s take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees Th’ inaudible and noiseless foot of time Steals ere we can effect them. 

O monstrous! but one halfpennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! 

Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 

Come, let us take a muster speedily. Doomsday is near. Die all, die merrily. 

Noble patricians, patrons of my right, Defend the justice of my cause with arms. And, countrymen, my loving followers, Plead my successive title with your swords. 

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

Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home! Is this a holiday? What, know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a laboring day without the sign Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou? 

Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us anything. 

In poison there is physic; and these news, Having been well, that would have made me sick, Being sick, have in some measure made me well. 

Urge them while their souls Are capable of this ambition, Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse, Cool and congeal again to what it was. 

The setting sun, and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past. 

But now will canker sorrow eat my bud And chase the native beauty from his cheek, And he will look as hollow as a ghost, As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit, And so he’ll die; and rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven I shall not know him. 

As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say’st, charged my brother on his blessing to breed me well: and there begins my sadness. 

Their perfume lost, Take these again, for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. 

That is, when a man is, as they say, accommodated: or where a man is – being – whereby – he may be thought to be accommodated, which is an excellent thing. 

I thank thee, gently Percy; and be sure I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul rememb’ring my good friends; And, as my fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love’s recompense. 

Worthy Montano, you were wont to be civil; The gravity and stillness of your youth The world hath noted, and your name is great In mouths of wisest censure. 

Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty. 

O that I were a mockery king of snow, Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke To melt myself away in water drops! 

To weep, is to make less the depth of grief; Tears, then, for babes; blows and revenge for me. 

(Macbeth:) Here’s our chief guest. (Lady Macbeth:) If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast, And all-thing unbecoming. 

Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. 

If I lose my honor, I lose myself: better I were not yours Than yours so branchless. 

Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pity, And pity ’tis ’tis true – a foolish figure. 

Of nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast And with the half-blown rose. 

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? 

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

Hark! I hear their drum. Fight, gentlemen of England! Fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood! Amaze the welkin with your broken staves! 

I pr’ythee take thy fingers from my throat; Sir, though I am not splenetive and rash, Yet have I something in me dangerous, Which let thy wiseness fear: away thy hand. 

Who are the violets now That strew the green lap of the new-come spring? 

Women will love her that she is a woman More worth than any man; men, that she is The rarest of all women. 

To doubt the Equivocation of the fiend, That lies like truth: Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane. 

Hope is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that And manage it against despairing thoughts. 

The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be King Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. 

I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently penned, I have taken great pains to con it. 

Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody? 

Comb down his hair. Look, look! it stands upright, Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul. 

His virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off. 

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel, But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged courage. 

But virtue never will be mov’d, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven. 

When first this order was ordained, my lords, Knights of the Garter were of noble birth, Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage, Such as were grown to credit by the wars; Not fearing death nor shrinking for distress, But always resolute in most extremes. 

O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this. 

Why, then the world ‘s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open. 

She’ll not be hit With Cupid’s arrow. She hath Dian’s wit, And, in strong proof of chastity well armed, From Love’s weak childish bow she lives unharmed. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide th’ encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold. 

Thy promises are like Adonis’ garden, That one day bloomed and fruitful were the next. 

That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it; For who digs hills because they do aspire Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher. 

The thorny point Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred And know some nurture. 

My shame and guilt confounds me. Forgive me, Valentine. If hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offense, I tender’t here. I do as truly suffer As e’er I did commit. 

The man that once did sell the lion’s skin While the beast lived, was killed with hunting him. 

Why? She’s neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have her. 

God hath blessed you with a good name. To be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read comes by nature. 

I have, as when the sun doth light a storm, Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile: But sorrow, that is couch’d in seeming gladness, Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness. 

Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart; Th’ effect doth operate another way. 

I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Nor actions, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on. 

O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow. 

Erroneous vassals! the great King of Kings Hath in the table of his law commanded That thou shalt do no murder. Will you then Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man’s? 

O, good my lord, no Latin! I am not such a truant since my coming As not to know the language I have lived in. A strnage tongue makes my cause more strnage, suspicious. Pray speak in English. 

As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora, No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weeds, No mournful bell shall ring her burial; But throw her forth to beasts and birds to prey. Her life was beastly and devoid of pity, And being dead, let birds on he take pity! 

Prithee go hence, Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through th’ ashes of my chance. 

Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; For I have bought it with an hundred blows. 

Come, quench your blushes and present yourself That which you are, mistress o’ th’ feast. 

Thy heart is big; get thee apart and weep. Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes, Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, Begin to water. 

Well, God give them wisdom that have it, and those that are fools, let them use their talents. 

Bravest at the last, She levelled at our purposes, and being royal, Took her own way. 

I was about to tell thee, when my heart, As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, Lest Hector or my father should perceive me: I have, as when the sun doth light a-scorn, Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile; But sorrow, that is couched in seeming gladness, Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness. 

… I thought upon one pair of English legs Did march three Frenchmen. 

The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform’d to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness. 

You sent me Deputy for Ireland, Far from his succor, from the king, from all That might have mercy on the fault thou gav’st him; Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, Absolved him with an axe. 

The flesh being proud, Desire doth fight with Grace, For there it revels, and when that decays, The guilty Rebel for remission prays. 

My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar. 

Lord Angelo is precise; Stands at a guard with envy, scarce confesses That his blood flows, or that his appetite Is more to bread than stone. 

To wisdom he’s a fool that will not yield; And since Lord Helicane enjoineth us, We with our travels will endeavor it. 

He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost. 

The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;… 

And wilt thou still be hammering treachery To tumble down thy husband and thyself From top of honor to disgrace’s feet? 

I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modest as morning when she coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus, Which is that god in office, guiding men? 

Cytherea, How bravely thou becom’st thy bed, fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! 

The April is in her eyes; it is love’s spring, and these the showers to bring it on. 

Tut, I can counterfeit the deep tragedian, Speak and look back, and pry on every side, Tremble and state at wagging of a straw; Intending deep suspicion, ghastly looks… 

O God, thy arm was here! And not to use, but to thy arm alone, Ascribe we all! 

The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness, And time to speak it in; you rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster. 

O, he’s a limb that has but a disease: Mortal, to cut it off; to cure it, easy. 

I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honor I am the most offending soul alive. 

A figure like your father, Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pe, Appears before them and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them. 

When thou wast in thy gilt and thy perfume, they mocked thee for too much curiosity; in thy rags thou know’st none, but art despised for the contrary. There’s a medlar for thee; eat it. 

Never was such a sudden scholar made; Never came reformation in a flood With such a heady currance scouring faults; Nor never Hydra-headed willfulness So soon did lose his seat – ant all at once – As in this king. 

No, by my soul, I never in my life Did hear a challenge urged more modestly, Unless a brother should a brother dare To gentle exercise and proof of arms. 

O, call back yesterday, did time return, And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! To-day, to-day, unhappy day too late, O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state; For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed, and fled. 

I’ll potch at him some way; Or wrath or craft may get him. 

(Olivia:) What’s a drunken man like, fool? (Clown:) Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman. One draught above heat makes him a fool, the seconds mads him, and a third drowns him. 

Why, what a wasp-tongued and impatient fool Art thou, to break into this woman’s mood; Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own! 

By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rime, and to be mallicholy; and here is part of my rime, and here by mallicholy. 

It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth, It is a comforter. 

He that hath a will to die by himself, Fears it not from another. 

The presence of a king engenders love Amongst his subjects, and his royal friends. 

Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies; Now thrive the armorers, and honor’s thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man. 

My dear dear lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation. That away, Man are but gilded loam or painted clay. 

Tis time to give ’em physic, their diseases Are grown so catching. 

A wicked day, and not a holy day! What hath this day deserved? What hath it done That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar? 

Few things loves better Than to abhor himself – … 

Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken, And he wants it that wants resolved will To learn his wit t’ exchange the bad for better. 

Know’t, It will let in and out the enemy With bag and baggage. 

Now from head to foot I am marble-constant: now the fleeting moon No planet is of mine. 

Foul-spoken coward, that thunder’st with thy tongue, And with thy weapon nothing dar’st perform. 

These earthly godfathers of heaven’s light, That give a name to every fixed star, Have no more profit of their shining nights Than those that walk and wot not what they are. 

And thus I clothe my naked villany With old odd ends, stol’n out of holy writ, And seem a saint when most I play the devil. 

I do defy him, and I spit at him; Call him – a slanderous coward, and a vil-lain: Which to maintain, I would allow him odds; And meet him, were I ty’d to run a-foot, Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps. 

Rather let my head Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any Save to the God of heaven and to my king. 

No metal can – no, not the hangman’s axe – bear half the keenness of thy sharp envy. 

To my shame, I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men, That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds; fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough, and continent, To hide the slain. 

They fool me to the top of my bent. – I will come by and by. 

(Marcullus:) You, sir, what trade are you? (Cobbler:) Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. (Marcullus:) But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. (Cobbler:) A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. 

He is come to open The purple testament of bleeding war. 

There is no art whereby to find the mind’s construction in the face. 

Base men, that use them to so base effect! But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth; His words are bonds, his oath are oracles, His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. 

Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the churchway paths to glide. 

Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge; For, on their answer, will we set on them, And God befriend us as our cause is just! 

I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause transform ourselves into beasts! 

So from that spring, whence comfort seem’d to come, Discomfort swells. 

Determine on some course, More than a wild exposure to each chance That starts i’ th’ way before thee. 

This sleep is sound indeed. This is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorced So many English kings. 

Good Paulina, Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely Each one demand and answer to his part Performed in this wide gap of time since first We were dissevered. Hastily lead away. 

They, judgment and reason, have been grandjurymen since before Noah was a sailor. 

With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm’d eyes Look after him and cannot do him good. 

You cannot call it love, for at your age The heyday in the blood is tame, it’s humble And waits upon the judgment, and what judgment Would step from this to this? 

What, is the old king dead? As nail in door. The things I speak are just. 

Anything that’s mended is but patched; virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. 

Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are! 

Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear? Let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live. 

Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste. For valor, is not Love a Hercules, Still climbing trees in the Hesperides? 

Silence is only commendable In a neat’s tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. 

By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune (Now, my dear lady) hath mine enemies Brought to this shore; and by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop. 

O, my Antonio, I do know of these, That therefore only are reputed wise, For saying nothing. 

Now I think on’t, They should be good men, their affairs are righteous; But all hoods make not monks. 

I am as true as truth’s simplicity, And simpler than the infancy of truth. 

Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies. For vilest things Become themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish. 

Tis but thy name that is my enemy, – Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What’s in a name? that which we call a rose, By any other name would smell as sweet. 

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am armed so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind Which I respect not. 

Therefore love moderately: long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. 

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. 

Forty thousand brothers Could not with all their quantity of love Make up my sum. 

Gard’ner, for telling me these news of woe, Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never grow. 

What king so strong, Can tie the gall up in a slanderer’s tongue? 

She pined in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. 

And truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with. One doth not know How much an ill word may empoison liking. 

Poison be their drink! Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest meat that they taste! – Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ stings! Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss! And, boding screech-owls make the concert full! 

Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. 

If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, I’ll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime, Or I’ll so maul you and your toasting-iron, That you shall think the devil has come from hell. 

The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat wake the god of day. 

My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allayed their swelling griefs, My mercy dried their water-flowing tears. 

She’s not well married that lived married long, But she’s best married that dies married young. 

Weeds are shallow-rooted, Suffer them now, and they’ll o’ergrow the garden, And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. 

Like to the time o’ th’ year between the extremes Of hot and cold, he was not sad nor merry. 

On Tuesday last A falcon, now tow’ring in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed. 

Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall, And by the doom of death end woes and all. 

The nimble gunner With linstock now the devilish cannon touches, And down goes all before them. 

Forbear sharp speeches to her; she’s a lady, So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, And strokes death to her. 

Better be with the dead, Whom we to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. 

Give him gold enough, and marry him to a puppet, or an aglet-baby; or an old trot with ne’er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as two and fifty horses; why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal. 

Look here he comes! Not poppy nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall eve med’cine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday. 

Tellest thou me of ifs? Thou art a traitor: Off with his head! 

These old fellows have Their ingratitude in them hereditary; Their blood is caked, ’tis cold, it seldom flows; ‘Tis lack of kindly warmth, they are not kind, And nature, as it grows toward earth, Is fashion’d for the journey-dull and heavy. 

Do not swear at all; Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I’ll believe thee. 

And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. 

O, sits high in all the people’s hearts; And that which would appear offense in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. 

I fear it is too choleric a meat. How say you to a fat tripe finely broiled? 

From the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he is all mirth; he has twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him: he hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks. 

Now Romeo is beloved and loves again, Alike bewitched by the charm of looks; But to his foe supposed he must complain, And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks. 

I’ll give thrice so much land To any well-deserving friend; But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, I’ll cavil on the ninth part of a hair. 

Those that do teach young babes Do it with gentle means and easy tasks: He might have chid me so; for, in good faith, I am a child to chiding. 

Canst thou not minster to a mind diseased; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain; And, with some sweet oblivious antidote, Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff, Which weighs upon the heart? 

The better sort, As thoughts of things divine, are intermixed With scruples, and do set the word itself Against the word: As thus, ‘Come, little one,’ and then again, ‘It is as hard to come as for a camel To thread the postern of a small needle’s eye. 

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man, that mocks at it, and sets it light. 

In honest plainness thou hast heard me say My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness, Being full of supper and distemp’ring draughts, Upon malicious knavery does thou come To start my quiet. 

All is confounded, all! Reproach and everlasting shame Sits mocking in our plumes. 

Ambition’s like a circle on the water, Which never ceases to enlarge itself, ‘Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. 

She had a good opinion of advice, Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, For which small thanks are still the market price, Even when the article at highest rate is. 

Oh, mickle is the powerful grace that lies in plants, herbs, stones and their qualities! 

Come, we burn daylight, ho! Nay, that’s not so. I mean, sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. 

Saint Valentine is past. Begin these woodbirds but to couple now? 

The king’s a beggar, now the play is done. All is well ended if this suit be won, That you express content; which we will pay With strife to please you, day exceeding day. Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts; Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts. 

Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge That no king can corrupt. 

That which in mean men we entitle patience Is pale cold cowardice in noble beasts. 

Time yet serves, wherein you may redeem your tarnished honors, and restore yourselves into the good thoughts of the world again. 

Who am no more but as the tops of trees, Which fence the roots they grow by and defend them – Make both my body pine and soul to languish, And punish that before that he would punish. 

Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win. 

The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait. 

He saw me, and yielded, that I may justly say, with the hooked-nosed fellow of Rome, their Caesar, ‘I came, saw and overcame. 

Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face, And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen; Examine every several lineament, And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies, Find written in the margin of his eyes. 

Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murdered, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must like a whore unpack my heart with words And fall a-cursing like a very drab, A stallion! Fie upon’t, foh! About, my brains. 

She swore, i’ faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange; ‘Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful. 

When my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth. 

O I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part, sir, of myself, and what remains is bestial. 

To vouch this is no proof Without more certain and more overt tests Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming do prefer against him. 

What? I! I love! I sue! I seek a wife! A woman that is like a German clock, Still a repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright; being a watch, But being watch’d that it may still go right! 

The most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turned up ace. 

Think not on him till to-morrow. I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers! 

My lord shall never rest; I’ll watch him tame and talk him out of patience; His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift; I’ll intermingle everything he does With Cassio’s suit. 

Such comfort as do lusty young men feel When well-apparelled April on the heel Of limping Winter treads, even such delight Among fresh fennel buds shall you this night Inherit at my house. 

Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But like a thrifty goddess she determines Herself the glory of a creditor, Both thanks and use. 

Tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes: For who so firm that cannot be seduced? 

To who? To thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine? A heart as big? Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not My dagger in my mouth. 

Go thither, and with unattainted eye Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. 

He hath out-villained villainy so far, that the rarity redeems him. 

He bears an honorable mind, And will not use a woman lawlessly. 

(Rosalind:) I’ faith, his hair is of a good color. (Celia:) An excellent color. Your chestnut was ever the only color. 

The reformation of our travelled gallants That fill the court with quarrels, talk and tailors. 

Leave wringing of your hands: Peace; sit you down, And let me wring your heart: for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff; If damned custom have not braz’d it so, That it be proof and bulwark against sense. 

This youth that you see here I snatched one half out of the jaws of death; Relieved him with such sanctity of love, And to his image, which methought did promise Most venerable worth, die I devotion. 

There sentences, to sugar, or to gall, Being strong on both sides, are equivocal. But words are words. I never yet did hear That the bruised heart was pierced through the ear. 

As prodigal of all dear grace as Nature was in making graces dear. 

What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it. 

Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies, There to dispose this treasure in mine arms And secretly to greet the empress’s friends. 

For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue. 

Trust not the physician; His antidotes are poison, and he slays More than you rob. 

We’ll leave a proof, by that which we will do, Wives may be merry, and yet honest too. 

Love is full of unbefitting strains; all wanton as a child, skipping, and vain; formed by the eye, and therefore, like the eye, full of strange shapes, of habits, and of forms. 

Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it for the proper false In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we: For, such as we are made of, such are we. 

Nought so vile, that on the earth doth live, But to the earth some special good cloth give. 

O if this were seen! The happiest youth – viewing his progress through What perils past, what crosses to ensue – Would shut the book, and sit him down and die. 

O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-sceptred, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accursed And does blaspheme his breed? 

Our battle is more full of names than yours, Our men more perfect in the use of arms, Our armor all as strong, our cause is best, Then reason will our hearts should be as good. 

Pray, do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less; And, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. 

You are pictures out of doors, Bells in your parlors, wildcats in your kitchens, Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds. 

I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me; society is no comfort To one not sociable. 

O conspiracy, Sham’st thou to show thy dang’rous brow by night, When evils are most free? 

A merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour’s talk withal: His eye begets occasion for his wit; For every object that the one doth catch, The other turns to a mirth-moving jest. 

O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long If life did ride upon a dial’s point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour. 

Noble madam, Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. 

If half thy outward graces had been placed About the thoughts and counsels of thy heart. 

Look how we can, or sad or merrily, Interpretation will misquote our looks, And we shall feed like oxen at a stall, The better cherished still the nearer death. 

Experience teacheth us That resolution ‘s a sole help at need: And this, my lord, our honour teacheth us, That we be bold in every enterprise: Then since there is no way, but fight or die, Be resolute, my lord, for victory. 

Now, good my lord, Let there be some more test made of my mettle Before so noble and so great a figure Be stamped upon it. 

Do I? Yea, in truth, do I, an ’twere an aspen leaf. I cannot abide swaggerers. 

I thank him that he cuts me from my tale, For I profess not talking. Only this – Let each man do his best; and here draw I A sword whose temper I intend to stain With the best blood that I can meet withal In the adventure of this perilous day. 

And from each other look thou lead them thus Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep. 

Shadows tonight Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond. 

I will make an end of my dinner – there’s pippins and seese to come. 

I could be well moved, if I were as you; If I could pray to move, prayers would move me: But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true-fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament. 

But thoughts the slaves of life, and life time’s fool, And time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop. 

You souls of geese, That bear the shapes of men, how have you run From slaves that apes would men! 

Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice To change true rules for odd inventions. 

Each man to his stool, with that spur as he would to the lip of his mistress. Your diet shall be in all places alike; make not a City feast of it, to let the meat cool ere we can agree upon the first place; sit, sit. The gods require our thanks. 

It is war’s prize to take all vantages; And ten to one is no impeach of valor. 

The bay trees in our country all are withered, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-faced moon look bloody on the earth, And lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change; Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap – The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, The other to enjoy by rage and war. 

God give us leisure for these sights of love! Once more, adieu! 

Portia adieu! I have too griev’d a heart To take a tedious leave. 

Had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell. Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. 

To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps. 

Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick, yet, with my nobler reason, against my fury do I take part; the rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance. 

And that same dew, which some time on the buds was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, stood now within the pretty floweret’s eyes, like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. 

O how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours! 

Thou canst not speak of that thou does not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Them mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. 

Then live, Macduff, – what need I fear of thee? But yet I’ll make assurance double sure And take a bond of fate. 

Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest But may imagine how the bird was dead, Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak? 

When I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother. 

What sudden anger’s this? How have I reaped it? He parted frowning from me, as if ruin Leaped from his eyes. So looks the chafed lion Upon daring huntsman that has galled him; Then makes him nothing. 

We bodged again, as I have been a swan With bootless labor swim against the tide And spend her strength with overmatching waves. 

This is all as true as it is strange; Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth To th’ end of reckoning. 

Thus ready for the way of life or death, I wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus. 

Oh for a muse of fire that would ascend the highest heaven of invention! 

There is no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand. 

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature. 

Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course And we are graced with wreaths of victory; But in the midst of this bright-shining day I spy a black, suspicious, threat’ning cloud That will encounter with our glorious sun Ere he attain his easeful western bed. 

O dissembling courtesy! how fine this tyrant can tickle where she wounds! 

I cannot tell: the world is grown so bad That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch. 

Look down, you gods, And on this couple drop a blessed crown. 

Look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill. 

O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded. My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal. 

Bleed, bleed, poor Country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee; wear thou thy wrongs, The title is affeered! 

You good gods, Let what is here contained relish of love, Of my lord’s health, of his content – yet not That we two are asunder; let that grieve him. Some griefs are med’cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love – of his content All but in that. 

We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns, And pass them current too. Gods me, my horse! 

I will marry her, sir, at your request; but if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decease it upon better acquaintance when we are married and have more occasion to know one another. 

The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. 

Whereby I see that Time’s the king of men; He’s both their parent, and he is their grave, And gives them what he will, not what they crave. 

Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment? that parchment, being scribbled o’er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings, but I say ’tis the bee’s wax; for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mind own man since. 

Direct not him whose way himself will choose; ‘Tis breath not lack’st, and that breath wilt thou lose. 

What bath this day deserv’d? what hath it done, That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar? 

Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence. 

I see your brows are full of discontent, Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears. 

Rich honesty dwells like a miser, in a poor house, as your pearl in your foul oyster. 

Sick now? droop now? This sickness doth infect The very lifeblood of our enterprise. 

Fie, fie upon her! There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip; Nay, her foot speaks. Her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body. 

Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonor; in few, bestowed here on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not. 

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news Hath but a losing office, and his tongue Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, Rememb’red tolling a departing friend. 

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night. Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. Come, but one verse. 

This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist and the armipotent soldier. 

He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all of my substance into that fat belly of his. 

Farewell The hopes of court; my hopes in heaven do dwell. 

Let us command to know that of your mouth, or of your lips – for divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth. 

Contend not, sir; for we are gentlemen Have neither in our hearts nor outward eyes Envied the great nor shall the low despise.