Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smoothBut that our soft conditions and our heartsShould well agree with our external parts?
When shall we three meet againIn thunder, lightning, or in rain?
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,And vice sometime by action dignified.
Until I know this sure uncertainty,I'll entertain the offered fallacy.
Under loves heavy burden do I sink.--Romeo
Two households, both alike in dignity,In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.From forth the fatal loins of these two...
To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up tine, supply it wi...
Tis in my memory lock'd,And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented: sometimes am I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am: then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king; The...
Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.
The grief that does not speak whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.
The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
The breaking of so great a thing should makeA greater crack: the round worldShould have shook lions into civil streets,And citizens to their dens.
Tell me where is fancy bred,Or in the heart, or in the head?
Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!
So will I turn her virtue into pitch,And out of her own goodness make the netThat shall enmesh them all.
So quick bright things come to confusion.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.