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 taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on te...
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
Is it thy will, thy image should keep openMy heavy eyelids to the weary night?Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?Is it thy spirit that thou send'...
If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not ...
I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
I have not slept.Between the acting of a dreadful thingAnd the first motion, all the interim isLike a phantasma, or a hideous dream:The Genius and the mortal instrumentsAre then in council; and the st...
I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust: to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise, and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I...
I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger.'No, and if he were I would burn my library.
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;Life and these lips have long been separated:Death lies on her like an untimely frostUpon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Go to your bosom; Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.
For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies.
DEMETRIUSRelent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yieldThy crazed title to my certain right.LYSANDERYou have her father's love, Demetrius;Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him.
Be bloody bold and resolute.
All of Creation’s a farce.Man was born as a joke.In his head his reason is buffetedLike wind-blown smoke.Life is a game.Everyone ridicules everyone else.
Age cannot wither her nor custom stale her infinite variety other women cloy the appetites they feed but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.
Blow wind and crack your cheeks. Rage! Blow!
'Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.