Quotes from William Shakespeare

No longer mourn for me when I am deadThan you shall hear the surly sullen bellGive warning to the world that I am fledFrom this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.

Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs,You would say it hath been all in all his study.

God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

In the most high and palmy state of Rome,A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted deadDid squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.

These violent delights have violent ends.

Where'er I wander, boast of this I can,Though banish'd, yet a true-born Englishman.

O, wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful, wonderful! and yet again wonderful! and after that, out of all whooping.

Saint George, that swing'd the dragon, and e'er sinceSits on his horse back at mine hostess' door.

To seek their fortunes further than at home,Where small experience grows.

Wives may be merry, and yet honest too.

Of comfort no man speak:Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyesWrite sorrow on the bosom of the earth;Let's choose executors and talk of wills.

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,That fools should be so deep-contemplative,And I did laugh sans intermissionAn hour by his dial.

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,Where oxlips and the nodding violet growsQuite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:There sleeps Titania some time of the night,Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

O, what a world of vile ill-favor'd faultsLooks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!

I never knew so young a body with so old a head.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,And call upon my soul within the house.

For it so falls outThat what we have we prize not to the worthWhiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost,Why, then we rack the value, then we findThe virtue that possession would not show usWhiles it was ours.

Now my soul hath elbow-room.

Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,Nor the furious winter's rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

See what a rent the envious Casca made.

Every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to match it.

The valiant never taste of death but once.

For I can raise no money by vile means.