William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 60 | Just Great DataBase

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:It wearies me; you say it wearies you;But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,I am to learn;And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,That I have much ado to know myself.

How many things by season season'd are, To their right praise and true perfection!

O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that.

Такава е на любовта мощта,че възвишава низките неща.Сега да си представя ясно могазащо й ваят и рисуват богас превръзка на очите и с криле —припряна слепота! От туй по-зле!И го представят все дете, защотоне различава злото от добротои в своите игри сред шум и виккълне се и отмята всеки миг!

Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days; the more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends.

When in that moment,—so it came to pass,— Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass.

There thou mightst behold the great image of authority: a dog's obeyed in office.

I dare do all that may become a man, who dares more is none...

Lady Macduff: [To her son] Sirrah, your father's dead:And What will you do now? How will you live?Son: As birds do, mother.Lady Macduff: What, with worms and flies?Son: With what I get, I mean. and so do they

Look here upon this picture, and on this...

Out, damned spot

To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus...

Nought’s had, all’s spent, where our desire is got without content.

All is the fear, and nothing is the love, as little is the wisdom, where the flight so runs against all reason.

Each new mornNew widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrowsStrike heaven on the face, that it resoundsAs if it felt with Scotland, and yelled outLike syllable of dolor.

L'amor d'homes dolents es converteix en por;la por en odi, i l'odi fa que l'un, o bé tots dos,esdevinguin perill d'una mort merescuda.

When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again?

Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair:

I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the worldHave so incensed that I am reckless whatI do to spite the world.

ما الحياة إلا ظل يمر ..ممثل مسكين، يتحرك، ويستعرض لساعة على المسرح ..ثم لا تعود نسمعه؛ إنها قصة،مليئة بالضجيج، بالغضب، يرويها أبله، ولا معنى لها.