Quotes from William Shakespeare

Murder most foul, as in the best it is.

But man, proud man,Drest in a little brief authority,Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd,His glassy essence, like an angry ape,Plays such fantastic tricks before high heavenAs make the angels weep.

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told.

He is the half part of a blessed man,Left to be finished by such a she;And she a fair divided excellence,Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.

My comfort is, that old age, that ill layer-up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face.

How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us.

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

Duke: And what's her history?Viola: A blank, my lord. She never told her love,But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought,And with a green and yellow melancholy,She sat like Patience on a monument,Smiling at grief.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom staleHer infinite variety; other women cloyThe appetites they feed, but she makes hungryWhere most she satisfies; for vilest thingsBecome themselves in her, that the holy priestsBless her when she is riggish.

Alas! 'tis true I have gone here and there,And made myself a motley to the view,Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,Made old offenses of affections new.

But to my mind,—though I am native hereAnd to the manner born—it is a customMore honor'd in the breach than the observance.

We have heard the chimes at midnight.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest; and despair most sits.

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

Pray you now, forget and forgive.

I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here.

He was not born to shame:Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit.

To do a great right, do a little wrong.

In those holy fieldsOver whose acres walk'd those blessed feetWhich fourteen hundred years ago were nail'dFor our advantage on the bitter cross.

Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.

For these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rime themselves into ladies' favors, they do always reason themselves out again.

No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve: ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.

When daisies pied and violets blue,And lady-smocks all silver-white,And cuckoo-buds of yellow hueDo paint the meadows with delight,The cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo;Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear!

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.