William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 41 | Just Great DataBase

Why, such is love's transgression.Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prestWith more of thine: this love that thou hast shownDoth add more grief to too much of mine own.Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;Being vex'd a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears:What is it else? a madness most discreet,A choking gall and a preserving sweet.Farewell, my coz.

Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.

Discharge my followers; let them hence away,From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.

Them that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton.

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.

When remedies are past, the griefs are endedBy seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.To mourn a mischief that is past and goneIs the next way to draw new mischief on.What cannot be preserved when fortune takes,Patience her injury a mockery makes.The robb'd that smiles steals something for the thief;He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.

This to hearWould Desdemona seriously incline:But still the house-affairs would draw her thence:Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,She'ld come again, and with a greedy earDevour up my discourse: which I observing,Took once a pliant hour, and found good meansTo draw from her a prayer of earnest heartThat I would all my pilgrimage dilate,Whereof by parcels she had something heard,But not intentively: I did consent,And often did beguile her of her tears,When I did speak of some distressful strokeThat my youth suffer'd. My story being done,She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:She swore, in faith, twas strange, 'twas passing strange,'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'dThat heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me,And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,I should but teach him how to tell my story.And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd,And I loved her that she did pity them.This only is the witchcraft I have used:Here comes the lady; let her witness it.

Put money in thy purse.

I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear

Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history,is second childishness and mere oblivion.I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

I flamed amazement

O, she's warm!If this be magic, let it be an artLawful as eating.

So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing. I am yours for the walk and especially when I walk away.

My salad daysWhen I was green in judgment, cold in blood,To say as I said then!

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,Rough-hew them how we will

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; 
God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another:
you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nick-name God's creatures, 
and make your wantonness your ignorance. 
Go to, I'll no more don't; it hath made me mad.

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?Have I not in my time heard lions roar?Have I not heard the sea, puffed up with winds,Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?Have I not heard great ordinance in the field,And Heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?Have I not in a pitched battle heardLoud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang?And do you tell me of a woman's tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to hearAs will a chestnut in a farmer's fire?Tush! tush! fear boys with bugs.Grumio: For he fears none.

Tis hatched and shall be so

Tush!Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate;Talkers are no good doers: be assuredWe come to use our hands and not our tongues.

The world is grown so bad that wrens make pray where eagles dare not perch