William Shakespeare Quotes - Page 81 | Just Great DataBase

A traveler. By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

They stumble that run fast.

ROSALIND (AS GANYMEDE): Well, time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let me try.

Juliet:Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.Romeo:Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.Juliet:Then have my lips the sin that they have took.Romeo:Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!Give me my sin again.

ROSALIND: What would yousay to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind?ORLANDO: I would kiss before I spoke.

I defy you, stars!

                               All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts,

Thou talk'st of nothing." "True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasty; Which is as thin of substance as the air; And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face t the dew-dropping south.

O, that's a brave man! He writes brave versrs, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely,

When the devout religion of mine eyeMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires,And these, who, often drowned, could never die,Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars!One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sunNe'er saw her match since first the world begun.

The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool." The

What is it else? A madness most discreet,A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

هاأنتم أولاء ترون أننا لسنا وحدنا الأشقياء التعساء, فهذا المسرح العالمي الرحيب يعرض علينا مناظر أشد حزنًا و إيلامًا من المنظر الذى نمثل فيه.

ROMEO: ... Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.MERCUTIO: And, to sink in it, should you burden love;Too great oppression for a tender thing.ROMEO: Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.MERCUTIO: If love be rough with you, be roughwith love;Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

TOUCHSTONE Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:It was the nightingale, and not the lark,That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Then I defy you, stars!

ROMEO: A torch for me: let wantons light of heartTickle the senseless rushes with their heels,For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase;I’ll be a candle-holder, and look on.The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.MERCUTIO: Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’sown word:If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mireOf this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick’stUp to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!ROMEO: Nay, that’s not so.MERCUTIO: I mean, sir, in delayWe waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.Take our good meaning, for our judgement sitsFive times in that ere once in our five wits.ROMEO: And we mean well in going to this mask;But ’tis no wit to go.MERCUTIO: Why, may one ask?ROMEO: I dream’d a dream to-night.MERCUTIO: And so did I.ROMEO: Well, what was yours?MERCUTIO: That dreamers often lie.ROMEO: In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.MERCUTIO: O, then, I see Queen Mabhath been with you.She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes.

O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.

All things that we ordained festival,Turn from their office to black funeral;Our instruments to melancholy bells,Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change,Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,And all things change them to the contrary.