My crown is called content a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.
A young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief
A wild dedication of yourselvesTo undiscovered waters, undreamed shores.
You have witchcraft in your lips, there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they shouldsooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of...
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
Words, words, words.
William Shakespeare (baptised 26 April 1564 – died 23 April 1616) was an English poet and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramati...
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous dayAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,Hiding they brav'ry in their rotten smoke?
Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.
True, I talk of dreams,Which are the children of an idle brain,Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,Which is as thin of substance as the air,And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the froze...
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?
They say best men are molded out of faults,
These late eclipses in the sun and moon portendno good to us: though the wisdom of nature canreason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itselfscourged by the sequent effects: love cools,friendship fall...
Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;Who, though they cannot answer my distress,Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes,For that they will not intercept my tale:When I do weep, they hu...
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd,And I lov'd her that she did pity them
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying...
Now is the winter of our discontentMade glorious summer by this sun of York;And all the clouds that lour'd upon our houseIn the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Listen to many, speak to a few.