Quotes from William Shakespeare

Let me tell the world.

We see which way the stream of time doth runAnd are enforc'd from our most quiet sphereBy the rough torrent of occasion.

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not;But, to those men that sought him sweet as summer.

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere wellIt were done quickly; if the assassinationCould trammel up the consequence, and catchWith his surcease success; that but this blowMight be the be-all and the end-all here,But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,We'd jump the life to come.

A deal of skimble-skamble stuff.

O proud death!What feast is toward in thine eternal cell?

She speaks, yet she says nothing.

And sleep in dull cold marble.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade.

To be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

I will tell you my drift.

Romeo: Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swearThat tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops—Juliet: O! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,That monthly changes in her circled orb,Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

The best in this kind are but shadows.

I could a tale unfold whose lightest wordWould harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,Thy knotted and combined locks to part,And each particular hair to stand an end,Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.

Tigers, not daughters.

True is it that we have seen better days.

One out of suits with fortune.

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,Than such a Roman.

I am slow of study.

All my pretty ones?Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?What! all my pretty chickens and their damAt one fell swoop?

Polonius: Do you know me, my lord?Hamlet: Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.

He that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends.

With all appliances and means to boot.

I would have thee gone;And yet no further than a wanton's bird,Who lets it hop a little from her hand,Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,And with a silk thread plucks it back again,So loving-jealous of his liberty.