Quotes from William Shakespeare

what ho, apothecary!

thou art the best o' the cut-throats

Why, then the world 's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.

The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

But then I sigh, with a piece of Scripture Tell them that God bids us to do evil for good; And thus I clothe my naked villany With odd old ends stolen out of Holy Writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

What's a drunken man like, fool? Feste: Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

Shine out fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass.

Some there be that shadow kiss; Such have but a shadow's bliss.

This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.

Let me have war, say I: it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men.

In such business Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th' ignorant More learned than the ears.

Ambition should be made from sterner stuff.

O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, to drown me in thy sister's flood of tears.

O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart.-Helena

You are a villain! Iago: You are a senator!

I am not what I am..

In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.' Benedick - The savage bull may, but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead, and let me be vildly painted; and in such great letters as they writes, 'Here is good horse for hire', let them signify under my sign, 'Here you may see Benedick the married man.

That he's mad, 'tis true, 'tis true 'tis pity, And pity 'tis, 'tis true —a foolish figure

Alas, poor country, almost afraid to know itself! It cannot be called our mother, but our grave.

O, that he were here to write me down an ass! But, masters, remember, that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.

We that are true lovers run into strange capers.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.