Come what come may, time and the hour run through the roughest day.
Come unto these yellow sands,And then take hands.Curtsied when you have and kissedThe wild waves whist,Foot is featly here and there;And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.Ariel's song, scene II, Act I
Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.
Be great in act, as you have been in thought.
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,From this day to the ending of the world,But we in it shall be remembered-We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;For he to-day that sheds his blood with meSha...
Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.Here’s much to do wit...
Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!*It’s sad. Love looks like a nice thing, but it’s actually very rough when you experience it.*
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims...
Adversity's sweet milk philosophy.
There's small choice in rotten apples.
Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.
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...
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?
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-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,To the last syllable of recorded time;And all our yesterdays have lighted foolsThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief...
This is the very ecstasy of love, whose violent property ordoes itself and leads the will to desperate undertakings.
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...
There is some soul of goodness in things evil,Would men observingly distill it out.