Quotes by William Shakespeare

He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.

. . . I will not be sworn, but love may trans-form me to an oyster, but, I’ll take my oath on it, till hehave made an oyster of me, he shall never make me sucha fool.

Live by the words of intelligence endured..F@&$ IT!

Death, that hath suckd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

She moves me not, or not removes at least affections edge in me.

Our reasons are not prophets When oft our fancies are.

Were such things here as we do speak about?Or have we eaten on the insane rootThat takes the reason prisoner?

... and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days...

... reason andlove keep little company together now-a-days...

The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.

The blessedness of being little!!!

Loves not Times fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickles compass come.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,For they in thee a thousand errors note; But tis my heart that loves what they despise,Who in despite of view is pleased to dote

But thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool;And time, that takes survey of all the world,Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy,But that the earthy and cold hand of deathLies on my tongue

silence is not a langauge, its a weapon to make your dear one to feel

The time approachesThat will with due decision make us knowWhat we shall say we have and what we owe.Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate,But certain issue strokes must arbitrate;Towards which, advance th

What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord?Or to the dreadful summit of the cliffThat beetles oer his base into the sea,And there assume some other horrible formWhich might deprive your sovereignty of reasonAnd draw you into madness? Think of it.[The very place puts toys of desperation,Without more motive, into every brainThat looks so many fathoms to the seaAnd hears it roar beneath.]

The skies are painted with unnumberd sparks,They are all fire and every one doth shine

Theres not the smallest orb which thou beholdstBut in his motion like an angel sings,Still quiring [making music] to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls,But whilst this muddy vesture of decayDoth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it.

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.