Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
But men are men the best sometimes forget.
Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.
What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week?Or sells eternity to get a toy?For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?...
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it...
O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Lovers and madmen have such seething brainsSuch shaping fantasies, that apprehendMore than cool reason ever comprehends.
What's gone and what's past help Should be past grief.
God has given you one face and you make yourselves another.
A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain, dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapors which environ it, makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, fu...
If I were to kiss you then go to hell, I would. So then I can brag with the devils I saw heaven without ever entering it.
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 l...
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
O, hereWill I set up my everlasting rest,And shake the yoke of inauspicious starsFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O youThe doors of breath,...
Hang there like a fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!-Posthumus LeonatusAct V, Scene V
Few love to hear the sins they love to act.
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver.
Men at some time are masters of their fates.
I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.
As full of spirit as the month of May.