Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school.
From his cradle He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one, Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that loved him not, But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.
I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban. What is your study?
(Berowne:) What is the end of study, let me know? (King:) What, that to know which else we should not know. (Berowne:) Things hid and barred, you mean, from common sense? (King:) Ay, that is study's godlike recompense.
So study evermore is overshot. While it doth study to have what it would, It doth forget to do the thing it should; And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, 'Tis won as towns with fire; so won, so lost.
Study is like the heaven's glorious sun, That will not be deep-searched with saucy looks: Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from others' books.
To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.
Oh, I have suffered With those that I saw suffer!
Bravest at the last, She levelled at our purposes, and being royal, Took her own way.
Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin?
And the more pity that great folk should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christen.
Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life Cuts off so many years of fearing death.
You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please.
Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So ling lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York; And all the clouds that lowered upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
O God! methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes, how they run-- How many makes the hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live; When this is known, then to divide the times-- So many hours must I tend my flock, So many hours must I take my rest, So many hours must I contemplate, So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young, So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean, So many months ere I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!
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.
When clouds are seen wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall then winter is at hand.
When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand; When the sun sets, who doth not look for night? Untimely storms makes men expect a dearth.
All is not well. I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
Would he were fatter! But I fear him not. Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer.
