Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
The swallow follows not summer more willing than we your lordship.
Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies, There to dispose this treasure in mine arms And secretly to greet the empress's friends.
Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can Her heart inform her tongue--the swan's down-feather That stands upon the swell at full of tide, And neither way inclines.
We bodged again, as I have been a swan With bootless labor swim against the tide And spend her strength with overmatching waves.
I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, And from the organ-pipe of fraity sings His soul and body to their lasting rest.
Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then if he lose he makes a swanlike end, Fading in music.
I will play the swan, And die in music.
Coal-black is better than another hue In that it scorns to bear another hue; For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood.
And then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend them at my pleasure.
When a gentlemen is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths.
I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.
That in the captain's but a choleric word, Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
Do not swear at all; Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe thee.
So soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him.
Sweets to the sweet! Farewell.
For thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentany as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night, That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!' The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion.
(Cloten:) Thou villain base, Know'st me not by my clothes? (Guiderius:) No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather. He made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee.
(Cornwall:) Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man? (Kent:) A tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could not have made him ill, though they had been but two years o' th' trade.
Thy gown? Why, ay--come, tailor, let us see't. O mercy, God, what masquing stuff is there? What's this, a sleeve? 'Tis like a demi-cannon. What, up and down carved like an apple tart? Here's snip and nip and cut and slish and slash, Like to a censer in a barber's shop. Why, what's a devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?
I prithee take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.
What cracker is this same that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath?
If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father.
The red wine first must rise In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have 'em Talk us to silence.
No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk; Then howsome'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things I shall digest it.
