Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
Thyself and thy belongings
Are not thine own so proper as to waste
Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,
Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, 't were all alike
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd
But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends
The smallest scruple of her excellence
But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines
Herself the glory of a creditor,
Both thanks and use.
He was ever precise in promise-keeping.
Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home.
I hold you as a thing ensky'd and sainted.
A man whose blood
Is very snow-broth; one who never feels
The wanton stings and motions of the sense.
He arrests him on it;
And follows close the rigour of the statute,
To make him an example.
Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt.
The jury, passing on the prisoner's life,
May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two
Guiltier than him they try.
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
This will last out a night in Russia,
When nights are longest there.
Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
Become them with one half so good a grace
As mercy does.
Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once;
And He that might the vantage best have took
Found out the remedy. How would you be,
If He, which is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as you are?
The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.
O, it is excellent
To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.
But man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he's most assured,
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep.
That in the captain's but a choleric word
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
Our compell'd sins
Stand more for number than for accompt.
The miserable have no other medicine,
But only hope.
A breath thou art,
Servile to all the skyey influences.
Palsied eld.
The sense of death is most in apprehension;
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.
The cunning livery of hell.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world.
The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.
