Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,--
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
The ripest fruit first falls.
Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor.
Eating the bitter bread of banishment.
Fires the proud tops of the eastern pines.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm off from an anointed king.
O, call back yesterday, bid time return!
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs.
And nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall--and farewell king!
He is come to open
The purple testament of bleeding war.
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little little grave, an obscure grave.
Gave
His body to that pleasant country's earth,
And his pure soul unto his captain Christ,
Under whose colours he had fought so long.
A mockery king of snow.
As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious.
As for a camel
To thread the postern of a small needle's eye.
So shaken as we are, so wan with care.
In those holy fields
Over whose acres walked those blessed feet
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd
For our advantage on the bitter cross.
Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon.
Old father antic the law.
I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought.
Thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a saint.
And now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked.
'T is my vocation, Hal; 't is no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.
