William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 42 | Just Great DataBase

Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides:Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

...for the eye sees not itself,but by reflection, by some other things.

Kent.Where's the king?Gent.Contending with the fretful elements;Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea,Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main,That things might change or cease; tears his white hair,Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,Catch in their fury and make nothing of;Strives in his little world of man to outscornThe to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,The lion and the belly-pinched wolfKeep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs,And bids what will take all.

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,That you would have me seek into myselfFor that which is not in me?

But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow worldLike a Colossus, and we petty menWalk under his huge legs and peep aboutTo find ourselves dishonorable graves.Men at some time are masters of their fates.The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our starsBut in ourselves, that we are underlings.

But 'tis common proof, that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face; but when he once attains the upmost round, he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the vase defrees by which he did ascend.

Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil

To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.

I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!

Art thou afeardTo be the same in thine own act and valourAs thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have thatWhich thou esteem'st the ornament of life,And live a coward in thine own esteem,Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,'Like the poor cat i' the adage?

where civil blood makes civil hands unclean

How much salt water thrown away in waste/To season love, that of it doth not taste.

Did my heart love 'til now?

I hate the murderer, love him murdered.

By innocence I swear, and by my youth,I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,And that no woman has, nor never noneShall mistress be of it save I alone.

If music be the food of love, play on;Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,The appetite may sicken, and so die.That strain again! it had a dying fall:O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound,That breathes upon a bank of violets,Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,That, notwithstanding thy capacityReceiveth as the sea, nought enters there,Of what validity and pitch soe'er,But falls into abatement and low price,Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancyThat it alone is high fantastical.

IAGO: She that was ever fair and never proud,Had tongue at will and yet was never loud,Never lack'd gold and yet went never gay,Fled from her wish and yet said 'Now I may,'She that being anger'd, her revenge being nigh,Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly,She that in wisdom never was so frailTo change the cod's head for the salmon's tail;She that could think and ne'er disclose her mind,See suitors following and not look behind,She was a wight, if ever such wight were,--DESDEMONA: To do what?IAGO: To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.