William Shakespeare Quotes
''Yet do I fear thy nature,William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Lady Macbeth, in Macbeth, act 1, sc. 5, l. 15-17 (1623). Lady Macbeth reacts to Macbeth's letter informing her of the Witches' prophesy that he will be king. Fearing Macbeth is too gentle to murder the king ("catch the nearest way").
It is too full o'th' milk of human kindness
To catch the nearest way.''
''Hereafter, in a better world than this,William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Le Beau, in As You Like It, act 1, sc. 2, l. 284-5. Addressing Orlando; "better world" may mean better conditions than under the Duke's tyranny, or the next world, heaven.
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.''
''It is a taleWilliam Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Macbeth, in Macbeth, act 5, sc. 5.
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury;
''You must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.''William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Maria, in Twelfth Night, act 1, sc. 3, l. 8-9. Advising Sir Toby Belch not to stay up drinking late at night.
''Not marble nor the gilded monumentsWilliam Shakespeare (1564-1616), British poet. Not marble nor the guilded monuments (l. 1-8). . . The Unabridged William Shakespeare, William George Clark and William Aldis Wright, eds. (1989) Running Press.
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rime;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.''
''O, beware, my lord, of jealousy!William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British poet. Othello (III, iii). . . The Unabridged William Shakespeare, William George Clark and William Aldis Wright, eds. (1989) Running Press.
It is the green-ey'd monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;
But, O, what damned minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!''
''You'd be so lean that blasts of JanuaryWilliam Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Perdita, in The Winter's Tale, act 4, sc. 4, l. 111-2. To Camillo, who is so taken by her beauty that he says he could feed by staring at her.
Would blow you through and through.''
''The quality of mercy is not strained.William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Portia, in The Merchant of Venice, act 4, sc. 1, l. 181-86 (1600). Portia, disguised as a man, argues that Shylock should show mercy to Antoniothough shortly afterwards she herself shows little mercy in her dealings with Shylock. (Strained here means "forced," "compelled.").
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown.''
''Good fortune then!William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Prince of Morocco, in The Merchant of Venice, act 2, sc. 1, l. 45-6. He means he will be blessed if he chooses the right casket and wins Portia.
To make me blest or cursed'st among men.''
''Let's lack no discipline, make no delay:William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Richard, in Richard III, act 5, sc. 3, l. 17-8. Preparing to fight the forces of Richmond.
For, lords, tomorrow is a busy day.''
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All The World's A Stage
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in ...
What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case