Quotes by William Shakespeare

Macbeth:If we should fail?Lady Macbeth:We fail?But screw your courage to the sticking place,And well not fail.

He which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart, his passport shall be made and crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that mans company that fears his fellowship, to die with us.

This is the very ecstasy of love,Whose violent property fordoes itselfAnd leads the will to desperate undertakingsAs oft as any passion under heavenThat does afflict our natures.

My brain Ill prove the female to my soul; my soul the father: and these two beget a generation of still-breeding thoughts, and these same thoughts people this little world.

Well, in that hit you miss. Shell not be hitWith Cupids arrow. She hath Dians wit,And, in strong proff of chastity well armed,From Loves weak childish bow she lives uncharmed. She will not stay the siege of loving terms,Nor bide th encounter of assailing eyes,Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.O, she is rich in beauty; only poorThat, when she dies, with dies her store.Act 1,Scene 1, lines 180-197

He eats nothing but doves, love, and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood beget hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.

BOYETA mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady!Let the mark have a prick int, to mete at, if it may be.MARIAWide o the bow hand! i faith, your hand is out.COSTARDIndeed, a must shoot nearer, or hell neer hit the clout.BOYETAn if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.COSTARDThen will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.MARIACome, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.COSTARDShes too hard for you at pricks, sir: challenge her to bowl.BOYETI fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl.Exeunt BOYET and MARIA

Silence is the herald of joy

O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace.

Have not we affections and desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,Is the immediate jewel of their souls:Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands;But he that filches from me my good nameRobs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.

What infinite hearts-easeMust kings neglect, that private men enjoy!And what have kings, that privates have not too,Save ceremony, save general ceremony?And what art thou, thou idle ceremony?What kind of god art thou, that sufferst moreOf mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?What are thy rents? what are thy comings in?O ceremony, show me but thy worth!What is thy soul of adoration?Art thou aught else but place, degree and form,Creating awe and fear in other men?Wherein thou art less happy being feardThan they in fearing.What drinkst thou oft, instead of homage sweet,But poisond flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!Thinkst thou the fiery fever will go outWith titles blown from adulation?Will it give place to flexure and low bending?Canst thou, when thou commandst the beggars knee,Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,That playst so subtly with a kings repose;I am a king that find thee, and I knowTis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball,The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,The farced title running fore the king,The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pompThat beats upon the high shore of this world,No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,Not all these, laid in bed majestical,Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,Who with a body filld and vacant mindGets him to rest, crammd with distressful bread;Never sees horrid night, the child of hell,But, like a lackey, from the rise to setSweats in the eye of Phoebus and all nightSleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn,Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse,And follows so the ever-running year,With profitable labour, to his grave:And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king.The slave, a member of the countrys peace,Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wotsWhat watch the king keeps to maintain the peace,Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

The tender spring upon thy tempting lipShows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted:Make use of time, let not advantage slip;Beauty within itself should not be wasted:Fair flowers that are not gatherd in their primeRot and consume themselves in little time.

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

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

Then I defy you, stars!

Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars and swearers enough to beat the honest men and hang up them.

O that a man might knowThe end of this days business ere it come!But it sufficeth that the day will endAnd then the end is known.

What we are is not all that we may become.

Lord Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words. Lord Polonius: What is the matter, my lord? Hamlet: Between who? Lord Polonius: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.