Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
It doth appear you are a worthy judge; You know the law, your exposition Hath been most sound.
A little more than kin, and less than kind!
Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkercher about your brows-- The best I had, a princess wrought it me-- And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head, And like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheered up the heavy time, Saying, 'What lack you?' and 'Where lies your grief?'
Yet do I fear thy nature. It is too full o' th' milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
I think the King is but a man as I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me.
There's never a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he's an arrant knave.
A knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-faking, whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch; one whom I will beat into clamorous whining if thou deny'st the least syllable of thy addition.
Whip me such honest knaves!
Knowledge is the wing whereby we fly to Heaven.
Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip; Nay, her foot speaks. Her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body.
Thou whoreson zed, thou unnecessary letter!
He has strangled His language in his tears.
You taught me language, and my profit on't Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language!
There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture.
Great Britain and the United States are nations separated by a common language.
It was greek to me.
Now begin; For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
Then my dial goes not true; I look this lark for a bunting.
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise, Arise, arise!
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm. So hallowed and so gracious is that time.
It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale.
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; Who doth the world so gloriously behold That cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold.
Shall I say to Caesar What you require of him? For he partly begs To be desired to give. It much would please him That of his fortunes you should make a staff To lean upon.
