William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 43 | Just Great DataBase

But jealous souls will not be answered so.They are not ever jealous for the cause,But jealous for they’re jealous. It is a monsterBegot upon itself, born on itself.

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

Demand me nothing: what you know, you know.

Oh, thou did'st then ne'er love so heartily.If thou rememb'rest not the slightest follyThat ever love did make thee run inot,Thou has not loved.Of if thou has't not sat as I do now,Wearying they hearer in thy mistress's praise,Thou has not loved.Of if thou hast not broke from companyAbruptly, as my passion now makes me,Thou has not loved. (Silvius)

A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever

Don Pedro - (...)'In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.'Benedick - The savage bull may, but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead, and let me be vildly painted; and in such great letters as they writes, 'Here is good horse for hire', let them signify under my sign, 'Here you may see Benedick the married man.

Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.

Men from children nothing differ.

Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world; now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the dayWould quake to look on.

That he's mad, 'tis true,'tis true 'tis pity,And pity 'tis, 'tis true—a foolish figure,

Thy best of rest is sleep,And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'stThy death, which is no more.

I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.

Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,And be it moon, or sun, or what you please.And if you please to call it a rush candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again,Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

Lucentio: I read that I profess, the Art of Love.Bianca: And may you prove, sir, master of your art!Lucentio: While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart!

Bad is the world, and all will come to naughtwhen such ill-dealing must be seen in thought.

Now is the winter of our discontentMade glorious summer by this sun of York

All dark and comfortless.

Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en
Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp.
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou may'st shake the superflux to them
And show the heavens more just.