Quotes by William Shakespeare

O, flatter me, for love delights in praises. PROTEUS. When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills, And I must minister the like to you. VALENTINE. Then speak the truth by her; if not divine, Yet let her be a principality, Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. PROTEUS. Except my mistress. VALENTINE. Sweet, except not any, Except thou wilt except against my love. PROTEUS. Have I not reason to prefer mine own? VALENTINE. And I will help thee to prefer her too: She shall be dignified with this high honour, To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, And, of so great a favour growing proud, Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower And make rough winter everlastingly. PROTEUS. Why, Valentine, what braggartism is this? VALENTINE. Pardon me, Proteus, all I can is nothing To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone. PROTEUS. Then let her alone. VALENTINE. Not for the world! Why, man, she is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. Forgive me that I do not dream on thee, Because thou seest me dote upon my love. My foolish rival, that her father likes Only for his possessions are so huge, Is gone with her along, and I must after, For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy. PROTEUS. But she loves you? VALENTINE. Ay, and we are betrothed; nay more, our marriage hour, With all the cunning manner of our flight, Determined of: how I must climb her window, The ladder made of cords, and all the means Plotted and ’greed on for my happiness. Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. PROTEUS. Go on before; I shall enquire you forth. I must unto the road to disembark Some necessaries that I needs must use, And then I’ll presently attend you. VALENTINE. Will you make haste? PROTEUS. I will. [_Exit Valentine._] Even as one heat another heat expels, Or as one nail by strength drives out another, So the remembrance of my former love Is by a newer object quite forgotten.

But, Warwick, after God thou sett’st me free, And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee; He was the author, thou the instrument. Therefore, that I may conquer Fortune’s spite, By living low where Fortune cannot hurt me, And that the people of this blessed land May not be punished with my thwarting stars, Warwick, although my head still wear the crown, I here resign my government to thee, For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds. WARWICK. Your Grace hath still been famed for virtuous, And now may seem as wise as virtuous By spying and avoiding Fortune’s malice, For few men rightly temper with the stars; Yet in this one thing let me blame your Grace, For choosing me when Clarence is in place. GEORGE. No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway, To whom the heavens in thy nativity Adjudged an olive branch and laurel crown, As likely to be blest in peace and war; And therefore I yield thee my free consent. WARWICK. And I choose Clarence only for Protector. KING HENRY. Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands. Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts, That no dissension hinder government. I make you both Protectors of this land, While I myself will lead a private life And in devotion spend my latter days, To sin’s rebuke and my Creator’s praise. WARWICK. What answers Clarence to his sovereign’s will? GEORGE. That he consents, if Warwick yield consent, For on thy fortune I repose myself. WARWICK. Why, then, though loath, yet I must be content. We’ll yoke together, like a double shadow To Henry’s body, and supply his place; I mean, in bearing weight of government, While he enjoys the honour and his ease. And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor And all his lands and goods be confiscate. GEORGE. What else? And that succession be determined. WARWICK. Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part. KING HENRY. But with the first of all your chief affairs Let me entreat—for I command no more— That Margaret your Queen and my son Edward Be sent for to return from France with speed; For till I see them here, by doubtful fear My joy of liberty is half eclipsed.

Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell her so. Must she not then be answer’d? DUKE. There is no woman’s sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart: no woman’s heart So big, to hold so much; they lack retention. Alas, their love may be called appetite, No motion of the liver, but the palate, That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as much. Make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe Olivia. VIOLA. Ay, but I know— DUKE. What dost thou know? VIOLA. Too well what love women to men may owe. In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. DUKE. And what’s her history? VIOLA. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined 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 still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. DUKE. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? VIOLA. I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too: and yet I know not. Sir, shall I to this lady? DUKE. Ay, that’s the theme. To her in haste. Give her this jewel; say My love can give no place, bide no denay. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Olivia’s garden. Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian. SIR TOBY. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. FABIAN. Nay, I’ll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. SIR TOBY. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame? FABIAN. I would exult, man. You know he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here. SIR TOBY. To anger him we’ll have the bear again, and we will fool him black and blue, shall we not, Sir Andrew?

When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, As I do now: for whiles this honest fool Plies Desdemona to repair his fortune, And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, I’ll pour this pestilence into his ear, That she repeals him for her body’s lust; And by how much she strives to do him good, She shall undo her credit with the Moor. So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all. Enter Roderigo. How now, Roderigo? RODERIGO. I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound that hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is almost spent, I have been tonight exceedingly well cudgelled; and I think the issue will be, I shall have so much experience for my pains, and so, with no money at all and a little more wit, return again to Venice. IAGO. How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Thou know’st we work by wit, and not by witchcraft, And wit depends on dilatory time. Does’t not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee, And thou, by that small hurt, hast cashier’d Cassio; Though other things grow fair against the sun, Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe. Content thyself awhile. By the mass, ’tis morning; Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. Retire thee; go where thou art billeted. Away, I say, thou shalt know more hereafter. Nay, get thee gone. [_Exit Roderigo._] Two things are to be done, My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress. I’ll set her on; Myself the while to draw the Moor apart, And bring him jump when he may Cassio find Soliciting his wife. Ay, that’s the way. Dull not device by coldness and delay. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. Cyprus. Before the Castle. Enter Cassio and some Musicians. CASSIO. Masters, play here, I will content your pains, Something that’s brief; and bid “Good morrow, general.” [_Music._] Enter Clown. CLOWN. Why, masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i’ the nose thus? FIRST MUSICIAN. How, sir, how? CLOWN. Are these, I pray you, wind instruments? FIRST MUSICIAN. Ay, marry, are they, sir. CLOWN. O, thereby hangs a tail. FIRST MUSICIAN. Whereby hangs a tale, sir? CLOWN. Marry, sir, by many a wind instrument that I know.

very well, my lord: the music ended, We’ll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth. DON PEDRO. Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again. BALTHASAR. O! good my lord, tax not so bad a voice To slander music any more than once. DON PEDRO. It is the witness still of excellency, To put a strange face on his own perfection. I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more. BALTHASAR. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing; Since many a wooer doth commence his suit To her he thinks not worthy; yet he wooes; Yet will he swear he loves. DON PEDRO. Nay, pray thee come; Or if thou wilt hold longer argument, Do it in notes. BALTHASAR. Note this before my notes; There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting. DON PEDRO. Why these are very crotchets that he speaks; Notes, notes, forsooth, and nothing! [Music.] BENEDICK. Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheep’s guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all’s done. BALTHASAR [sings.] Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no mo Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. DON PEDRO. By my troth, a good song. BALTHASAR. And an ill singer, my lord. DON PEDRO. Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift. BENEDICK. [Aside] And he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it. DON PEDRO. Yea, marry; dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music, for tomorrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber window. BALTHASAR. The best I can, my lord. DON PEDRO. Do so: farewell. [Exeunt Balthasar and Musicians.] Come hither, Leonato: what was it you told me of today, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?

Her father and myself, lawful espials, Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge, And gather by him, as he is behav’d, If’t be th’affliction of his love or no That thus he suffers for. QUEEN. I shall obey you. And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet’s wildness: so shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again, To both your honours. OPHELIA. Madam, I wish it may. [_Exit Queen._] POLONIUS. Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves.—[_To Ophelia._] Read on this book, That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness.—We are oft to blame in this, ’Tis too much prov’d, that with devotion’s visage And pious action we do sugar o’er The devil himself. KING. [_Aside._] O ’tis too true! How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word. O heavy burden! POLONIUS. I hear him coming. Let’s withdraw, my lord. [_Exeunt King and Polonius._] Enter Hamlet. HAMLET. To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die—to sleep, No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action.

I’ll not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat. Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs as if they had gyves on, for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There’s not a shirt and a half in all my company, and the half shirt is two napkins tacked together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald’s coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at Saint Albans, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that’s all one; they’ll find linen enough on every hedge. Enter Prince Henry and the Lord of Westmoreland. PRINCE. How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt? FALSTAFF. What, Hal! How now, mad wag? What a devil dost thou in Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy. I thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury. WESTMORELAND. Faith, Sir John, ’tis more than time that I were there, and you too, but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for us all. We must away all night. FALSTAFF. Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream. PRINCE. I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after? FALSTAFF. Mine, Hal, mine. PRINCE. I did never see such pitiful rascals. FALSTAFF. Tut, tut, good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder, they’ll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men. WESTMORELAND. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare, too beggarly. FALSTAFF. Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that; and for their bareness, I am sure they never learned that of me. PRINCE. No, I’ll be sworn, unless you call three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy is already in the field. [_Exit._] FALSTAFF. What, is the King encamped? WESTMORELAND. He is, Sir John. I fear we shall stay too long. [_Exit._] FALSTAFF. Well, To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.

Examine every married lineament, And see how one another lends content; And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies, Find written in the margent of his eyes. This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him, only lacks a cover: The fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride For fair without the fair within to hide. That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; So shall you share all that he doth possess, By having him, making yourself no less. NURSE. No less, nay bigger. Women grow by men. LADY CAPULET. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love? JULIET. I’ll look to like, if looking liking move: But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight. LADY CAPULET. We follow thee. [_Exit Servant._] Juliet, the County stays. NURSE. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Street. Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers; Torch-bearers and others. ROMEO. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology? BENVOLIO. The date is out of such prolixity: We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper; Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance: But let them measure us by what they will, We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone. ROMEO. Give me a torch, I am not for this ambling; Being but heavy I will bear the light. MERCUTIO. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. ROMEO. Not I, believe me, you have dancing shoes, With nimble soles, I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. MERCUTIO. You are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings, And soar with them above a common bound. ROMEO. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft To soar with his light feathers, and so bound, I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.

” Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails May tear a passage through the flinty ribs Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls, And, for they cannot, die in their own pride. Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves That they are not the first of fortune’s slaves, Nor shall not be the last, like silly beggars Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame That many have and others must sit there; And in this thought they find a kind of ease, Bearing their own misfortunes on the back Of such as have before endured the like. 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 kinged again, and by and by Think that I am unkinged 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. Music do I hear? [_Music_.] Ha, ha! keep time! How sour sweet music is When time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men’s lives. And here have I the daintiness of ear To check time broke in a disordered string; But for the concord of my state and time Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his numb’ring clock. My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now, sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous groans which strike upon my heart, Which is the bell. So sighs and tears and groans Show minutes, times, and hours. But my time Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy, While I stand fooling here, his Jack o’ the clock. This music mads me! Let it sound no more; For though it have holp madmen to their wits, In me it seems it will make wise men mad. Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me, For ’tis a sign of love; and love to Richard Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

Say she shall be a high and mighty queen. QUEEN ELIZABETH. To vail the title, as her mother doth. KING RICHARD. Say I will love her everlastingly. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But how long shall that title “ever” last? KING RICHARD. Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s end. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But how long fairly shall her sweet life last? KING RICHARD. As long as heaven and nature lengthens it. QUEEN ELIZABETH. As long as hell and Richard likes of it. KING RICHARD. Say I, her sovereign, am her subject low. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty. KING RICHARD. Be eloquent in my behalf to her. QUEEN ELIZABETH. An honest tale speeds best being plainly told. KING RICHARD. Then plainly to her tell my loving tale. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Plain and not honest is too harsh a style. KING RICHARD. Your reasons are too shallow and too quick. QUEEN ELIZABETH. O no, my reasons are too deep and dead— Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves. KING RICHARD. Harp not on that string, madam; that is past. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Harp on it still shall I till heart-strings break. KING RICHARD. Now, by my George, my Garter, and my crown— QUEEN ELIZABETH. Profaned, dishonoured, and the third usurped. KING RICHARD. I swear— QUEEN ELIZABETH. By nothing, for this is no oath. Thy George, profaned, hath lost his lordly honour; Thy Garter, blemished, pawned his knightly virtue; Thy crown, usurped, disgraced his kingly glory. If something thou wouldst swear to be believed, Swear then by something that thou hast not wronged. KING RICHARD. Now, by the world— QUEEN ELIZABETH. ’Tis full of thy foul wrongs. KING RICHARD. My father’s death— QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thy life hath that dishonoured. KING RICHARD. Then, by myself— QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thyself is self-misused. KING RICHARD. Why, then, by God— QUEEN ELIZABETH. God’s wrong is most of all. If thou didst fear to break an oath with Him, The unity the King my husband made Thou hadst not broken, nor my brothers died.

Thus, sir: Although this lord of weak remembrance, this Who shall be of as little memory When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,— For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only Professes to persuade,—the King his son’s alive, ’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d As he that sleeps here swims. SEBASTIAN. I have no hope That he’s undrown’d. ANTONIO. O, out of that “no hope” What great hope have you! No hope that way is Another way so high a hope, that even Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, But doubts discovery there. Will you grant with me That Ferdinand is drown’d? SEBASTIAN. He’s gone. ANTONIO. Then tell me, Who’s the next heir of Naples? SEBASTIAN. Claribel. ANTONIO. She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwells Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples Can have no note, unless the sun were post— The Man i’ th’ Moon’s too slow—till newborn chins Be rough and razorable; she that from whom We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again, And by that destiny, to perform an act Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge. SEBASTIAN. What stuff is this! How say you? ’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis; So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions There is some space. ANTONIO. A space whose ev’ry cubit Seems to cry out “How shall that Claribel Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis, And let Sebastian wake.” Say this were death That now hath seiz’d them; why, they were no worse Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate As amply and unnecessarily As this Gonzalo. I myself could make A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore The mind that I do! What a sleep were this For your advancement! Do you understand me? SEBASTIAN. Methinks I do. ANTONIO. And how does your content Tender your own good fortune? SEBASTIAN. I remember You did supplant your brother Prospero. ANTONIO. True. And look how well my garments sit upon me; Much feater than before; my brother’s servants Were then my fellows; now they are my men.

witness, all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. The King shall have my service, but my prayers For ever and for ever shall be yours. WOLSEY. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries, but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let’s dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell, And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee; Say Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in, A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition! By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee. Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, Thy God’s, and truth’s. Then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the King. And, prithee, lead me in. There take an inventory of all I have. To the last penny; ’tis the King’s. My robe And my integrity to heaven is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, He would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. CROMWELL. Good sir, have patience. WOLSEY. So I have. Farewell, The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do dwell. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. A street in Westminster. Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another. FIRST GENTLEMAN. You’re well met once again. SECOND GENTLEMAN. So are you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. You come to take your stand here and behold The Lady Anne pass from her coronation? SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis all my business. At our last encounter, The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial.

Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally, While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth. Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly, A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth. His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth No penetrable entrance to her plaining; Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining. Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed In the remorseless wrinkles of his face. Her modest eloquence with sighs is mixed, Which to her oratory adds more grace. She puts the period often from his place, And midst the sentence so her accent breaks That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks. She conjures him by high almighty Jove, By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship’s oath, By her untimely tears, her husband’s love, By holy human law, and common troth, By heaven and earth, and all the power of both, That to his borrowed bed he make retire, And stoop to honour, not to foul desire. Quoth she, “Reward not hospitality With such black payment as thou hast pretended; Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee, Mar not the thing that cannot be amended. End thy ill aim before the shoot be ended; He is no woodman that doth bend his bow To strike a poor unseasonable doe. “My husband is thy friend; for his sake spare me. Thyself art mighty; for thine own sake leave me. Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me; Thou look’st not like deceit; do not deceive me. My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee. If ever man were moved with woman’s moans, Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans. “All which together, like a troubled ocean, Beat at thy rocky and wrack-threat’ning heart, To soften it with their continual motion; For stones dissolved to water do convert. O, if no harder than a stone thou art, Melt at my tears and be compassionate! Soft pity enters at an iron gate. “In Tarquin’s likeness I did entertain thee. Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame? To all the host of heaven I complain me, Thou wrong’st his honour, wound’st his princely name.

GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook’d. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have not seen him so pictur’d. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one. POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS. Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free.

Good maid, then. MISTRESS QUICKLY. I’ll be sworn, as my mother was, the first hour I was born. FALSTAFF. I do believe the swearer. What with me? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two? FALSTAFF. Two thousand, fair woman; and I’ll vouchsafe thee the hearing. MISTRESS QUICKLY. There is one Mistress Ford, sir—I pray, come a little nearer this ways. I myself dwell with Master Doctor Caius. FALSTAFF. Well, on; Mistress Ford, you say— MISTRESS QUICKLY. Your worship says very true. I pray your worship come a little nearer this ways. FALSTAFF. I warrant thee, nobody hears. Mine own people, mine own people. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Are they so? God bless them, and make them His servants! FALSTAFF. Well, Mistress Ford, what of her? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Why, sir, she’s a good creature. Lord, Lord, your worship’s a wanton! Well, heaven forgive you, and all of us, I pray! FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, come, Mistress Ford. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Marry, this is the short and the long of it: you have brought her into such a canaries as ’tis wonderful. The best courtier of them all, when the court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a canary. Yet there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches, I warrant you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift, smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold, and in such alligant terms, and in such wine and sugar of the best and the fairest, that would have won any woman’s heart; and I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her. I had myself twenty angels given me this morning, but I defy all angels in any such sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty. And, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup with the proudest of them all. And yet there has been earls—nay, which is more, pensioners—but, I warrant you, all is one with her. FALSTAFF. But what says she to me? Be brief, my good she-Mercury. MISTRESS QUICKLY.

It is a massy wheel Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boist’rous ruin. Never alone Did the King sigh, but with a general groan. KING. Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; For we will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed. ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. We will haste us. [_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._] Enter Polonius. POLONIUS. My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet. Behind the arras I’ll convey myself To hear the process. I’ll warrant she’ll tax him home, And as you said, and wisely was it said, ’Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear The speech of vantage. Fare you well, my liege, I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know. KING. Thanks, dear my lord. [_Exit Polonius._] O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,— A brother’s murder! Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And what’s in prayer but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up. My fault is past. But O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder! That cannot be; since I am still possess’d Of those effects for which I did the murder,— My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardon’d and retain th’offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law.

I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall, Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall. [_Exit._] ROMEO. [_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this, My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. JULIET. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. ROMEO. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? JULIET. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. ROMEO. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do: They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. JULIET. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake. ROMEO. Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d. [_Kissing her._] JULIET. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. ROMEO. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d! Give me my sin again. JULIET. You kiss by the book. NURSE. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. ROMEO. What is her mother? NURSE. Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the house, And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous. I nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal. I tell you, he that can lay hold of her Shall have the chinks. ROMEO. Is she a Capulet? O dear account! My life is my foe’s debt. BENVOLIO. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best. ROMEO. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest. CAPULET. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone, We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. Is it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all; I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night. More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late, I’ll to my rest. [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._] JULIET. Come hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman? NURSE. The son and heir of old Tiberio. JULIET. What’s he that now is going out of door? NURSE. Marry, that I think be young Petruchio.

[_To Seleucus_.] Prithee go hence, Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through th’ ashes of my chance. Wert thou a man, Thou wouldst have mercy on me. CAESAR. Forbear, Seleucus. [_Exit Seleucus._] CLEOPATRA. Be it known that we, the greatest, are misthought For things that others do; and when we fall, We answer others’ merits in our name, Are therefore to be pitied. CAESAR. Cleopatra, Not what you have reserved nor what acknowledged Put we i’ th’ roll of conquest. Still be’t yours; Bestow it at your pleasure, and believe Caesar’s no merchant to make prize with you Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheered; Make not your thoughts your prisons. No, dear queen; For we intend so to dispose you as Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed and sleep. Our care and pity is so much upon you That we remain your friend; and so, adieu. CLEOPATRA. My master and my lord! CAESAR. Not so. Adieu. [_Flourish. Exeunt Caesar and his train._] CLEOPATRA. He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not Be noble to myself. But hark thee, Charmian! [_Whispers to Charmian._] IRAS. Finish, good lady. The bright day is done, And we are for the dark. CLEOPATRA. Hie thee again. I have spoke already, and it is provided. Go put it to the haste. CHARMIAN. Madam, I will. Enter Dolabella. DOLABELLA. Where’s the Queen? CHARMIAN. Behold, sir. [_Exit._] CLEOPATRA. Dolabella! DOLABELLA. Madam, as thereto sworn by your command, Which my love makes religion to obey, I tell you this: Caesar through Syria Intends his journey, and within three days You with your children will he send before. Make your best use of this. I have performed Your pleasure and my promise. CLEOPATRA. Dolabella, I shall remain your debtor. DOLABELLA. I your servant. Adieu, good queen. I must attend on Caesar. CLEOPATRA. Farewell, and thanks. [_Exit Dolabella._] Now, Iras, what think’st thou? Thou an Egyptian puppet shall be shown In Rome as well as I.

The food that to him now is as luscious as locusts shall be to him shortly as acerb as the coloquintida. She must change for youth. When she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice. She must have change, she must. Therefore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst. If sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! It is clean out of the way: seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her. RODERIGO. Wilt thou be fast to my hopes if I depend on the issue? IAGO. Thou art sure of me. Go, make money. I have told thee often, and I retell thee again and again, I hate the Moor. My cause is hearted; thine hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him: if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered. Traverse, go, provide thy money. We will have more of this tomorrow. Adieu. RODERIGO. Where shall we meet i’ the morning? IAGO. At my lodging. RODERIGO. I’ll be with thee betimes. IAGO. Go to, farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo? RODERIGO. What say you? IAGO. No more of drowning, do you hear? RODERIGO. I am changed. I’ll sell all my land. [_Exit._] IAGO. Thus do I ever make my fool my purse. For I mine own gain’d knowledge should profane If I would time expend with such a snipe But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor, And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my sheets He has done my office. I know not if ’t be true, But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, Will do as if for surety. He holds me well, The better shall my purpose work on him. Cassio’s a proper man. Let me see now, To get his place, and to plume up my will In double knavery. How, how? Let’s see. After some time, to abuse Othello’s ear That he is too familiar with his wife. He hath a person and a smooth dispose, To be suspected, fram’d to make women false.

There lies your way, due west. VIOLA. Then westward ho! Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship! You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me? OLIVIA. Stay: I prithee tell me what thou think’st of me. VIOLA. That you do think you are not what you are. OLIVIA. If I think so, I think the same of you. VIOLA. Then think you right; I am not what I am. OLIVIA. I would you were as I would have you be. VIOLA. Would it be better, madam, than I am? I wish it might, for now I am your fool. OLIVIA. O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip! A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon Than love that would seem hid. Love’s night is noon. Cesario, by the roses of the spring, By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything, I love thee so, that maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause; But rather reason thus with reason fetter: Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. VIOLA. 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. And so adieu, good madam; never more Will I my master’s tears to you deplore. OLIVIA. Yet come again: for thou perhaps mayst move That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian. SIR ANDREW. No, faith, I’ll not stay a jot longer. SIR TOBY. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason. FABIAN. You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew. SIR ANDREW. Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the Count’s servingman than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw’t i’ th’ orchard. SIR TOBY. Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me that. SIR ANDREW. As plain as I see you now. FABIAN. This was a great argument of love in her toward you. SIR ANDREW. ’Slight! will you make an ass o’ me? FABIAN. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason.