Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
No, misery makes sport to mock itself.
The miserable have no other medicine, But only hope.
The worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.'
Such a house broke? So noble a master fall'n; all gone, and not One friend to take his fortune by the arm And go along with him?
Can it be That modesty may more betray our sense Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough, Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary And pitch our evils there?
I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty.
Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.-- This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till then in patience our proceeding be.
That it should come to this, But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two, So excellent a king, that was to this Hyperion to a satyr, so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth, Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on, and yet within a month-- Let me not think on't; frailty, thy name is woman-- A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father's body Like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she-- O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason Would have mourned longer--married with my uncle, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules.
The pretty and sweet manner of it forced Those waters from me which I would have stopped; But I had not so much of man in me, And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.
That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it; For who digs hills because they do aspire Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher.
The mountain was in labour, and Jove was afraid, but it brought forth a mouse.
Murder most foul, as in the best it is, But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
'A took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven?
No place indeed should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds.
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.
Blood hath been shed ere now, i' th' olden time, Ere humane stature purged the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been performed Too terrible for the ear. The time has been That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end. But now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools. This is more strange Than such a murder is.
Erroneous vassals! the great King of Kings Hath in the table of his law commanded That thou shalt do no murder. Will you then Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man's?
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger; And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when we sit idly in the sun.
Now we sit close about this taper here And call in question our necessities.
No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the emnity o' th' air, To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, Necessity's sharp pinch.
The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious.
