Quotes by William Shakespeare

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. ROMEO. If my heart’s dear love,— JULIET. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract tonight; It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say “It lightens.” Sweet, good night. This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night. As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast. ROMEO. O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? JULIET. What satisfaction canst thou have tonight? ROMEO. Th’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine. JULIET. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again. ROMEO. Would’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love? JULIET. But to be frank and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have; My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu. [_Nurse calls within._] Anon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [_Exit._] ROMEO. O blessed, blessed night. I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering sweet to be substantial. Enter Juliet above. JULIET. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, By one that I’ll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite, And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world. NURSE. [_Within._] Madam. JULIET. I come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee,— NURSE. [_Within._] Madam. JULIET. By and by I come— To cease thy strife and leave me to my grief. Tomorrow will I send. ROMEO. So thrive my soul,— JULIET. A thousand times good night. [_Exit._] ROMEO. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.

O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books, And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character, That every eye which in this forest looks Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere. Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. [_Exit._] Enter Corin and Touchstone. CORIN. And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone? TOUCHSTONE. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd? CORIN. No more but that I know the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is; and that 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 that 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. TOUCHSTONE. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd? CORIN. No, truly. TOUCHSTONE. Then thou art damned. CORIN. Nay, I hope. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side. CORIN. For not being at court? Your reason. TOUCHSTONE. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never saw’st good manners; if thou never saw’st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked, and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd. CORIN. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court but you kiss your hands.

PAINTER. ’Tis common. A thousand moral paintings I can show That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune’s More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen The foot above the head. Trumpets sound. Enter Lord Timon, addressing himself courteously to every suitor. He is accompanied by a Messenger; Lucilius and other servants follow. TIMON. Imprisoned is he, say you? MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. Five talents is his debt, His means most short, his creditors most strait. Your honourable letter he desires To those have shut him up, which, failing, Periods his comfort. TIMON. Noble Ventidius. Well, I am not of that feather to shake off My friend when he must need me. I do know him A gentleman that well deserves a help, Which he shall have. I’ll pay the debt and free him. MESSENGER. Your lordship ever binds him. TIMON. Commend me to him, I will send his ransom; And, being enfranchised, bid him come to me. ’Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after. Fare you well. MESSENGER. All happiness to your honour. [_Exit._] Enter an Old Athenian. OLD ATHENIAN. Lord Timon, hear me speak. TIMON. Freely, good father. OLD ATHENIAN. Thou hast a servant named Lucilius. TIMON. I have so. What of him? OLD ATHENIAN. Most noble Timon, call the man before thee. TIMON. Attends he here or no? Lucilius! LUCILIUS. Here, at your lordship’s service. OLD ATHENIAN. This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature, By night frequents my house. I am a man That from my first have been inclined to thrift, And my estate deserves an heir more raised Than one which holds a trencher. TIMON. Well, what further? OLD ATHENIAN. One only daughter have I, no kin else, On whom I may confer what I have got. The maid is fair, o’ th’ youngest for a bride, And I have bred her at my dearest cost In qualities of the best. This man of thine Attempts her love. I prithee, noble lord, Join with me to forbid him her resort; Myself have spoke in vain.

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. 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. CLEOPATRA. It is my birthday. I had thought t’have held it poor, but since my lord Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra. ANTONY. We will yet do well. CLEOPATRA. Call all his noble captains to my lord. ANTONY. Do so; we’ll speak to them; and tonight I’ll force The wine peep through their scars. Come on, my queen, There’s sap in’t yet. The next time I do fight I’ll make Death love me, for I will contend Even with his pestilent scythe. [_Exeunt all but Enobarbus._] ENOBARBUS. Now he’ll outstare the lightning. To be furious Is to be frighted out of fear, and in that mood The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still A diminution in our captain’s brain Restores his heart. When valour preys on reason, It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek Some way to leave him. [_Exit._] ACT IV SCENE I. Caesar’s Camp at Alexandria. Enter Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas, with his army. Caesar reading a letter. CAESAR. He calls me boy, and chides as he had power To beat me out of Egypt. My messenger He hath whipped with rods; dares me to personal combat, Caesar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know I have many other ways to die; meantime Laugh at his challenge. MAECENAS. Caesar must think, When one so great begins to rage, he’s hunted Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now Make boot of his distraction. Never anger Made good guard for itself. CAESAR. Let our best heads Know that tomorrow the last of many battles We mean to fight. Within our files there are, Of those that served Mark Antony but late, Enough to fetch him in. See it done, And feast the army; we have store to do’t, And they have earned the waste. Poor Antony! [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

The King is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers. Some peradventure have on them the guilt of premeditated and contrived murder; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury; some, making the wars their bulwark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of Peace with pillage and robbery. Now, if these men have defeated the law and outrun native punishment, though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God. War is his beadle, war is his vengeance; so that here men are punish’d for before-breach of the King’s laws in now the King’s quarrel. Where they feared the death, they have borne life away; and where they would be safe, they perish. Then if they die unprovided, no more is the King guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. 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 not sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare. WILLIAMS. ’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head, the King is not to answer for it. BATES. I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him. KING HENRY. I myself heard the King say he would not be ransom’d. WILLIAMS. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully; but when our throats are cut, he may be ransom’d, and we ne’er the wiser. KING HENRY. If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after. WILLIAMS. You pay him then. That’s a perilous shot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and a private displeasure can do against a monarch!

Do you not jest? HELENA. Yes, sooth, and so do you. LYSANDER. Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee. DEMETRIUS. I would I had your bond; for I perceive A weak bond holds you; I’ll not trust your word. LYSANDER. What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead? Although I hate her, I’ll not harm her so. HERMIA. What, can you do me greater harm than hate? Hate me? Wherefore? O me! what news, my love? Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander? I am as fair now as I was erewhile. Since night you lov’d me; yet since night you left me. Why then, you left me—O, the gods forbid!— In earnest, shall I say? LYSANDER. Ay, by my life; And never did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt; Be certain, nothing truer; ’tis no jest That I do hate thee and love Helena. HERMIA. O me! You juggler! You cankerblossom! You thief of love! What! have you come by night And stol’n my love’s heart from him? HELENA. Fine, i’ faith! Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, No touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear Impatient answers from my gentle tongue? Fie, fie, you counterfeit, you puppet, you! HERMIA. Puppet! Why so? Ay, that way goes the game. Now I perceive that she hath made compare Between our statures; she hath urg’d her height; And with her personage, her tall personage, Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail’d with him. And are you grown so high in his esteem Because I am so dwarfish and so low? How low am I, thou painted maypole? Speak, How low am I? I am not yet so low But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes. HELENA. I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, Let her not hurt me. I was never curst; I have no gift at all in shrewishness; I am a right maid for my cowardice; Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, Because she is something lower than myself, That I can match her. HERMIA. Lower! Hark, again. HELENA. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me. I evermore did love you, Hermia, Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong’d you, Save that, in love unto Demetrius, I told him of your stealth unto this wood.

LEAR. I would learn that; for by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters. FOOL. Which they will make an obedient father. LEAR. Your name, fair gentlewoman? GONERIL. This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you To understand my purposes aright: As you are old and reverend, you should be wise. Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires; Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d and bold That this our court, infected with their manners, Shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust Makes it more like a tavern or a brothel Than a grac’d palace. The shame itself doth speak For instant remedy. Be, then, desir’d By her that else will take the thing she begs A little to disquantity your train; And the remainder that shall still depend, To be such men as may besort your age, Which know themselves, and you. LEAR. Darkness and devils! Saddle my horses; call my train together. Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee: Yet have I left a daughter. GONERIL. You strike my people; and your disorder’d rabble Make servants of their betters. Enter Albany. LEAR. Woe that too late repents!— [_To Albany._] O, sir, are you come? Is it your will? Speak, sir.—Prepare my horses. Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show’st thee in a child Than the sea-monster! ALBANY. Pray, sir, be patient. LEAR. [_to Goneril._] Detested kite, thou liest. My train are men of choice and rarest parts, That all particulars of duty know; And in the most exact regard support The worships of their name. O most small fault, How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! Which, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature From the fix’d place; drew from my heart all love, And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! [_Striking his head._] Beat at this gate that let thy folly in And thy dear judgement out! Go, go, my people. ALBANY. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant Of what hath moved you.

I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all, believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father? OPHELIA. At home, my lord. HAMLET. Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell. OPHELIA. O help him, you sweet heavens! HAMLET. 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. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell. OPHELIA. O heavenly powers, restore him! HAMLET. I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t, it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages. Those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go. [_Exit._] OPHELIA. 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’observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck’d the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh, That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy. O woe is me, T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see. Enter King and Polonius. KING. Love? His affections do not that way tend, Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little, Was not like madness.

Look you here, Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors. FIRST CITIZEN. O piteous spectacle! SECOND CITIZEN. O noble Caesar! THIRD CITIZEN. O woeful day! FOURTH CITIZEN. O traitors, villains! FIRST CITIZEN. O most bloody sight! SECOND CITIZEN. We will be revenged. CITIZENS. Revenge,—about,—seek,—burn,—fire,—kill,—slay,—let not a traitor live! ANTONY. Stay, countrymen. FIRST CITIZEN. Peace there! Hear the noble Antony. SECOND CITIZEN. We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with him. ANTONY. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honourable. What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it. They’re wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 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. 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, Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. CITIZENS. We’ll mutiny. FIRST CITIZEN. We’ll burn the house of Brutus. THIRD CITIZEN. Away, then! come, seek the conspirators. ANTONY. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. CITIZENS. Peace, ho! Hear Antony; most noble Antony. ANTONY. 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. CITIZENS. Most true; the will!—let’s stay, and hear the will. ANTONY. Here is the will, and under Caesar’s seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. SECOND CITIZEN. Most noble Caesar! We’ll revenge his death. THIRD CITIZEN.

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That in the course of justice none of us Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea, Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there. SHYLOCK. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond. PORTIA. Is he not able to discharge the money? BASSANIO. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court, Yea, twice the sum, if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority. To do a great right, do a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will. PORTIA. It must not be, there is no power in Venice Can alter a decree established; ’Twill be recorded for a precedent, And many an error by the same example Will rush into the state. It cannot be. SHYLOCK. A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel! O wise young judge, how I do honour thee! PORTIA. I pray you let me look upon the bond. SHYLOCK. Here ’tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. PORTIA. Shylock, there’s thrice thy money offered thee. SHYLOCK. An oath, an oath! I have an oath in heaven. Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice. PORTIA. Why, this bond is forfeit, And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful, Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. SHYLOCK. When it is paid according to the tenour. It doth appear you are a worthy judge; You know the law; your exposition Hath been most sound. I charge you by the law, Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment.

You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF. He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors. ROSS. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not: He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear, and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason. ROSS. My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband, He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows The fits o’ th’ season. I dare not speak much further: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and move—I take my leave of you: Shall not be long but I’ll be here again. Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before.—My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! LADY MACDUFF. Father’d he is, and yet he’s fatherless. ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: I take my leave at once. [_Exit._] LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father’s dead. And what will you do now? How will you live? SON. As birds do, mother. LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies? SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they. LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! thou’dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall nor the gin. SON. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for a father? SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband? LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. SON. Then you’ll buy ’em to sell again. LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak’st with all thy wit; And yet, i’ faith, with wit enough for thee. SON. Was my father a traitor, mother?

DUKE. This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court. Where is he? NERISSA. He attendeth here hard by, To know your answer, whether you’ll admit him. DUKE OF VENICE. With all my heart: some three or four of you Go give him courteous conduct to this place. Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario’s letter. [_Reads._] _Your Grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick, but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome. His name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant. We turn’d o’er many books together. He is furnished with my opinion, which, bettered with his own learning (the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend), comes with him at my importunity to fill up your Grace’s request in my stead. I beseech you let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation._ You hear the learn’d Bellario what he writes, And here, I take it, is the doctor come. Enter Portia dressed like a doctor of laws. Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario? PORTIA. I did, my lord. DUKE. You are welcome. Take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court? PORTIA. I am informed throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here? And which the Jew? DUKE. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. PORTIA. Is your name Shylock? SHYLOCK. Shylock is my name. PORTIA. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow, Yet in such rule that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. [_To Antonio_.] You stand within his danger, do you not? ANTONIO. Ay, so he says. PORTIA. Do you confess the bond? ANTONIO. I do. PORTIA. Then must the Jew be merciful. SHYLOCK. On what compulsion must I?

Nor thou nor he are any sons of mine; My sons would never so dishonour me. Traitor, restore Lavinia to the Emperor. LUCIUS. Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife, That is another’s lawful promised love. [_Exit._] Enter aloft the Emperor Saturninus with Tamora and her two sons and Aaron the Moor. SATURNINUS. No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not, Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock. I’ll trust by leisure him that mocks me once; Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons, Confederates all thus to dishonour me. Was none in Rome to make a stale But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus, Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine That said’st I begged the empire at thy hands. TITUS. O monstrous! What reproachful words are these? SATURNINUS. But go thy ways; go, give that changing piece To him that flourished for her with his sword. A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy; One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome. TITUS. These words are razors to my wounded heart. SATURNINUS. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths, That like the stately Phœbe ’mongst her nymphs Dost overshine the gallant’st dames of Rome, If thou be pleased with this my sudden choice, Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride, And will create thee Empress of Rome. Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice? And here I swear by all the Roman gods, Sith priest and holy water are so near, And tapers burn so bright, and everything In readiness for Hymenæus stand, I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, Or climb my palace, till from forth this place I lead espoused my bride along with me. TAMORA. And here in sight of heaven to Rome I swear, If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, She will a handmaid be to his desires, A loving nurse, a mother to his youth. SATURNINUS. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. Lords, accompany Your noble emperor and his lovely bride, Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered.

Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, Which, like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue, A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use, And dreadful objects so familiar, That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quartered with the hands of war; All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds: And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from Hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial. Enter a Servant. You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not? SERVANT. I do, Mark Antony. ANTONY. Caesar did write for him to come to Rome. SERVANT. He did receive his letters, and is coming, And bid me say to you by word of mouth,— [_Seeing the body._] O Caesar! ANTONY. 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, Began to water. Is thy master coming? SERVANT. He lies tonight within seven leagues of Rome. ANTONY. Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanc’d. Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, No Rome of safety for Octavius yet. Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet stay awhile; Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse Into the market-place: there shall I try, In my oration, how the people take The cruel issue of these bloody men; According to the which thou shalt discourse To young Octavius of the state of things. Lend me your hand. [_Exeunt with Caesar’s body._] SCENE II. The same. The Forum. Enter Brutus and goes into the pulpit, and Cassius, with a throng of Citizens. CITIZENS. We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied. BRUTUS. Then follow me, and give me audience, friends. Cassius, go you into the other street And part the numbers. Those that will hear me speak, let ’em stay here; Those that will follow Cassius, go with him; And public reasons shall be rendered Of Caesar’s death.

Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! 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. ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me. Enter Polonius. God bless you, sir. POLONIUS. My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently. HAMLET. Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? POLONIUS. By the mass, and ’tis like a camel indeed. HAMLET. Methinks it is like a weasel. POLONIUS. It is backed like a weasel. HAMLET. Or like a whale. POLONIUS. Very like a whale. HAMLET. Then will I come to my mother by and by.—They fool me to the top of my bent.—I will come by and by. POLONIUS. I will say so. [_Exit._] HAMLET. By and by is easily said. Leave me, friends. [_Exeunt all but Hamlet._] ’Tis 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 bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft now, to my mother. O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: 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. [_Exit._] SCENE III. A room in the Castle. Enter King, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. KING. I like him not, nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you, I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you. The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies. GUILDENSTERN. We will ourselves provide.

Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell. JULIET. O find him, give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come to take his last farewell. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell. Enter Friar Lawrence. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enanmour’d of thy parts And thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. ROMEO. Father, what news? What is the Prince’s doom? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, That I yet know not? FRIAR LAWRENCE. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom. ROMEO. What less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom? FRIAR LAWRENCE. A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips, Not body’s death, but body’s banishment. ROMEO. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say death; For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say banishment. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. ROMEO. There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish’d from the world, And world’s exile is death. Then banished Is death misterm’d. Calling death banished, Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe, And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. FRIAR LAWRENCE. O deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law, And turn’d that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not. ROMEO. ’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog, And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her, But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand, And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.

JULIET. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. ROMEO. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. JULIET. Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone. ROMEO. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death, I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye, ’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow. Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. I have more care to stay than will to go. Come, death, and welcome. Juliet wills it so. How is’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day. JULIET. It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away. It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us. Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes. O, now I would they had chang’d voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day. O now be gone, more light and light it grows. ROMEO. More light and light, more dark and dark our woes. Enter Nurse. NURSE. Madam. JULIET. Nurse? NURSE. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke, be wary, look about. [_Exit._] JULIET. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. ROMEO. Farewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend. [_Descends._] JULIET. Art thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, friend, I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days.

This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince’s name. SECOND WATCH. How, if a’ will not stand? DOGBERRY. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave. VERGES. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the Prince’s subjects. DOGBERRY. True, and they are to meddle with none but the Prince’s subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets: for, for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured. SECOND WATCH. We will rather sleep than talk: we know what belongs to a watch. DOGBERRY. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping should offend; only have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. SECOND WATCH. How if they will not? DOGBERRY. Why then, let them alone till they are sober: if they make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men you took them for. SECOND WATCH. Well, sir. DOGBERRY. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. SECOND WATCH. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? DOGBERRY. Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company. VERGES. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. DOGBERRY. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him. VERGES. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it. SECOND WATCH. How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us? DOGBERRY. Why then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when he bleats.

So doth the swan her downy cygnets save, Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings. Yet, if this servile usage once offend, Go and be free again as Suffolk’s friend. [_She is going._] O, stay! I have no power to let her pass; My hand would free her, but my heart says no. As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, Twinkling another counterfeited beam, So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak. I’ll call for pen and ink, and write my mind. Fie, de la Pole, disable not thyself; Hast not a tongue? Is she not here? Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight? Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough. MARGARET. Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so, What ransom must I pay before I pass? For I perceive I am thy prisoner. SUFFOLK. How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit, Before thou make a trial of her love? MARGARET. Why speak’st thou not? What ransom must I pay? SUFFOLK. She’s beautiful, and therefore to be woo’d; She is a woman, therefore to be won. MARGARET. Wilt thou accept of ransom, yea, or no? SUFFOLK. Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife; Then how can Margaret be thy paramour? MARGARET. I were best leave him, for he will not hear. SUFFOLK. There all is marr’d; there lies a cooling card. MARGARET. He talks at random; sure, the man is mad. SUFFOLK. And yet a dispensation may be had. MARGARET. And yet I would that you would answer me. SUFFOLK. I’ll win this Lady Margaret. For whom? Why, for my king. Tush, that’s a wooden thing! MARGARET. He talks of wood. It is some carpenter. SUFFOLK. Yet so my fancy may be satisfied, And peace established between these realms. But there remains a scruple in that too; For though her father be the King of Naples, Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor, And our nobility will scorn the match. MARGARET. Hear ye, captain, are you not at leisure? SUFFOLK. It shall be so, disdain they ne’er so much. Henry is youthful and will quickly yield.

I heard of one of them no longer than yesterday—a very honest woman, but something given to lie; as a woman should not do but in the way of honesty—how she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt. Truly she makes a very good report o’ th’ worm; but he that will believe all that they say shall never be saved by half that they do. But this is most falliable, the worm’s an odd worm. CLEOPATRA. Get thee hence. Farewell. CLOWN. I wish you all joy of the worm. [_Sets down the basket._] CLEOPATRA. Farewell. CLOWN. You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind. CLEOPATRA. Ay, ay, farewell. CLOWN. Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of wise people; for indeed there is no goodness in the worm. CLEOPATRA. Take thou no care; it shall be heeded. CLOWN. Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the feeding. CLEOPATRA. Will it eat me? CLOWN. You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman. I know that a woman is a dish for the gods if the devil dress her not. But truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women, for in every ten that they make, the devils mar five. CLEOPATRA. Well, get thee gone. Farewell. CLOWN. Yes, forsooth. I wish you joy o’ th’ worm. [_Exit._] Enter Iras with a robe, crown, &c. CLEOPATRA. Give me my robe. Put on my crown. I have Immortal longings in me. Now no more The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip. Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear Antony call. I see him rouse himself To praise my noble act. I hear him mock The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men To excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come! Now to that name my courage prove my title! I am fire and air; my other elements I give to baser life.—So, have you done? Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. Farewell, kind Charmian. Iras, long farewell. [_Kisses them. Iras falls and dies._] Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall? If thou and nature can so gently part, The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, Which hurts and is desired.