Top 4037 Quotes & Sayings by William Shakespeare - Page 66

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

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

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus 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.

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*

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

When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welkin with his big-swoln face? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? I am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow! She is the weeping welkin, I the earth: Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd: For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave, for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.

Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.

A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.

These times of woe afford no time to woo.

Oh, thou did'st then ne'er love so heartily. If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run inot, Thou has not loved. Of if thou has't not sat as I do now, Wearying they hearer in thy mistress's praise, Thou has not loved. Of if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, Thou has not loved. (Silvius)

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

By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next

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

The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.

His life was gentle; and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!

the fire seven times tried this; seven times tried that judgement is that did never choose amiss some there be that shadows kiss; such have but a shadows bliss, there be fool alive, i wis silverd o'er, and so was this Take what wife you will to bed I will ever be your head. So be gone; you are sped.

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

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

Through the forest have I gone. But Athenian found I none, On whose eyes I might approve This flower's force in stirring love. Night and silence.--Who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear: This is he, my master said, Despised the Athenian maid; And here the maiden, sleeping sound, On the dank and dirty ground. Pretty soul! she durst not lie Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I throw All the power this charm doth owe. When thou wakest, let love forbid Sleep his seat on thy eyelid: So awake when I am gone; For I must now to Oberon.

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

Here comes Monseiur Le Beau. Rosalind: With his mouth full of news. Celia: Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. Rosalind: Then shall we be news-crammed. Celia: All the better; we shall be the more marketable.

a wild dedication of yourselves To undiscovered waters, undreamed shores.

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.

She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.

He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.

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

O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. 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. It is my lady, O, it is my love! Oh, that she knew she were!

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania

Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords!

And blind oblivion swallowed cities up.

And do so, love, yet when they have devised What strainèd 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.

And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness!

No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things.

I am a feather for each wind that blows

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.

Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.

Full fathom five thy father lies

The day shall not be up so soon as I, To try the fair adventure of tomorrow.

Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented: sometimes am I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am: then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king; Then am I king'd again: and by and by Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing: but whate'er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased With being nothing.

So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity.

She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I lov'd her that she did pity them

Hereditary sloth instructs me.

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.

These cardinals trifle with me; I abhor; This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.

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.

Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.

Who is Silvia What is she, That all our swains commend her Holy, fair, and wise is she.

You speak like a green girl / unsifted in such perilous circumstances.

By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has, nor never none Shall mistress be of it save I alone.

All the world is a stage and we are merely players.

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.

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.

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?

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

When I was at home I was in a better place

Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me, In thy opinion which is worthiest love?