Quotes from William Shakespeare

What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?

A falcon, towering in her pride of place,Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd.

He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!

And sometimes we are devils to ourselvesWhen we will tempt the frailty of our powers,Presuming on their changeful potency.

I have boughtGolden opinions from all sorts of people.

O! my offense is rank, it smells to heaven;It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't;A brother's murder!

Mine enemy's dog,Though he had bit me, should have stood that nightAgainst my fire.

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance… and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

I have given suck, and knowHow tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:I would, while it was smiling in my face,Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as youHave done to this.

O infinite virtue! com'st thou smiling fromThe world's great snare uncaught?

Always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.

Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,And welcome home again discarded faith.

And He that doth the ravens feed,Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,Be comfort to my age!

Farewell, Monsieur Traveler: look you lisp, and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.

Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judgeThat no king can corrupt.

O father Abram! what these Christians are,Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspectThe thoughts of others.

Have you not made a universal shout,That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,To hear the replication of your soundsMade in her concave shores?

But, look, the morn in russet mantle clad,Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.

Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator.

Striving to better, oft we mar what's well.

The owl, night's herald.

O thou weed!Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweetThat the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born.

Out of my lean and low abilityI'll lend you something.