Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
He hath a tear for pity, and a hand
Open as day for melting charity.
Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.
Commit
The oldest sins the newest kind of ways.
A joint of mutton, and any pretty little tiny kick-shaws, tell William cook.
His cares are now all ended.
Falstaff. What wind blew you hither, Pistol?
Pistol. Not the ill wind which blows no man to good.
A foutre for the world and worldlings base!
I speak of Africa and golden joys.
Under which king, Bezonian? speak, or die!
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention!
Consideration, like an angel, came
And whipped the offending Adam out of him.
Turn him to any cause of policy,
The Gordian knot of it he will unloose,
Familiar as his garter: that when he speaks,
The air, a chartered libertine, is still.
Base is the slave that pays.
Even at the turning o' the tide.
His nose was as sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of green fields.
As cold as any stone.
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin
As self-neglecting.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close the wall up with our English dead!
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start.
I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
Men of few words are the best men.
I thought upon one pair of English legs
Did march three Frenchmen.
You may as well say, that's a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fixed sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch;
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other's umbered face;
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear, and from the tents
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out.
