Quotes by William Shakespeare

I must be cruel Only to be kind.

Blow wind and crack your cheeks. Rage! Blow!

Thy wish was father to that thought.

Great men may jest with saints tis wit in them But in the less foul profanation.

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.

Fraily thy name is woman!

Sigh no more ladies sigh no more Men were deceivers ever One foot in sea and one on shore To one thing constant never.

Shes beautiful and therefore to be wood: She is a woman therefore to be won.

O gentle Romeo If thou dost love pronounce it faithfully. Or if thou thinkst I am too quickly won Ill frown and be perverse and say thee nay So thou wilt woo: but else not for the world.

My word fly up my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world now lies he there And none so poor to do him reverence.

Taffeta phrases silken terms precise Three-piled hyperboles spruce affectation Figures pedantical.

If all the year were playing holidays To sport would be as tedious as to work.

All the worlds a stage And all the men and women merely players.

Why then the worlds mine oyster Which I with sword will open.

The worst is not so long as we can say This is the worst.

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together Youth is full of pleasure age is full of care Youth like summer morn age like winter weather Youth like summer brave age like winter bare. Youth is full sport ages breath is short Youth is nimble age is lame Youth is hot and bold age is weak and cold Youth is wild age is tame. Age I do abhor thee youth I do adore thee.

Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!It seems she hangs upon the cheek of nightLike a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear,Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.So shows a snowy dove trooping with crowsAs yonder lady oer her fellows shows.The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand.Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!For I neer saw true beauty till this night.

Enter RUMOUR, painted full of ton

Rumour is a pipeBlown by surmises, jealousies, conjecturesAnd of so easy and so plain a stopThat the blunt monster with uncounted heads,The still-discordant wavering multitude,Can play upon it.