Quotes from William Shakespeare

But yesterday the word of Caesar mightHave stood against the world; now lies he there,And none so poor to do him reverence.

In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.

To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feastFits a dull fighter and a keen guest.

Nymph, in thy orisonsBe all my sins remember'd.

More matter for a May morning.

When in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rime,In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,I see their antique pen would have express'dEven such a beauty as you master now.

Full bravely hast thou flesh'dThy maiden sword.

But, soft; behold! lo, where it comes again! I'll cross it, though it blast me.—Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me...

We'll pluck a crow together.

We would, and we would not.

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee to me.

The last of all the Romans, fare thee well!

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.

Let the end try the man.

How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

O! what a noble mind is here o'erthrown:The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword.

How should I your true love knowFrom another one?By his cockle hat and staff,And his sandal shoon.

Good now, play one sceneOf excellent dissembling, and let it lookLike perfect honor.

Except I be by Silvia in the night,There is no music in the nightingale.

He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.

Love sought is good, but giv'n unsought is better.

I have liv'd long enough: my way of lifeIs fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf;And that which should accompany old age,As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,I must not look to have; but, in their stead,Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.

Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.

That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.