Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't.
On fortune's cap we are not the very button.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
A dream itself is but a shadow.
Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks.
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god!
Man delights not me: no, nor woman neither.
There is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.
I know a hawk from a handsaw.
O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!
One fair daughter and no more,
The which he loved passing well.
Come, give us a taste of your quality.
The play, I remember, pleased not the million; 't was caviare to the general.
They are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time: after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
Use every man after his desert, and who should'scape whipping?
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her?
Unpack my heart with words,
And fall a-cursing, like a very drab.
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ.
The devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape.
Abuses me to damn me.
The play's the thing
Wherein I 'll catch the conscience of the king.
With devotion's visage
And pious action we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep:
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The 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 the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
