William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 105 | Just Great DataBase

This might be the be-all and end-all here, but here, upon this bank and shoal of time, we'd jump the life to come

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Some are great, some greatness, and 149 some have greatness thrust upon ’em. Thy

Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair Hover through the fog and filthy air. Fair

the hate I bear thee can afford no better term then this: thou art a villian.

When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.

المُلك وحده لا شئ، المهم ان يكون المرء آمنا في المُلك.

Gregory, o' my word, we'll not carry coals.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor playerThat struts and frets his hour upon the stageAnd then is heard no more: it is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.

Whats in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

That, when they shall be opened, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state (55) Esteem him as a lamb, being compared With my confineless harms.

É quase dia; desejara que já tivesses ido, não mais longe porém, do que a travessa menina deixa o meigo passarinho que das mãos ela solta - tal qual pobre prisioneiro na corda bem torcida - para logo puxá-lo novamente pelo fio de seda, tão ciumenta e amorosa é de sua liberdade.

Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny. It

They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess I cannot sum up half of my wealth.

That vulture in you to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclined.

A madness most discreet,A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

Or to be naked with her friend in bed An hour or more, not meaning any harm?

Cleopatra: Oh, Charmian, Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he or sits he?Or does he walk? Or is he on his horse?O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!Do bravely, horse, for wott’st thou whom thou mov’st?The demi-Atlas of this earth, the armAnd burgonet of men. He’s speaking now,Or murmuring Where’s my serpent of old Nile?For so he calls me. Now I feed myselfWith most delicious poison. Think on me,That am with Phoebus’ amorous pinches blackAnd wrinkled deep in time. Broad-fronted Caesar,When thou wast here above the ground, I wasA morsel for a monarch. And great PompeyWould stand and make his eyes grow in my brow.There would he anchor his aspect, and dieWith looking on his life.

Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, tow’ring in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed. It’s