William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 42 | Just Great DataBase

Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.

Love and be silent.

Não tenho dormido.Entre a ação de um ato terrível e o primeiro gesto, todo esse intervalo é como um fantasma ou um sonho odioso: O Génio e os instrumentos mortais estão nessa altura reunidos; e a condição do homem, equiparável a um pequeno reino, sofre então a natureza de uma insurreição.

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!

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.