Quotes from William Shakespeare

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.

Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.

When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.

Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.

The sudden hand of Death close up mine eye!

Unsubstantial Death is amorous.

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.

Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!This was the most unkindest cut of all

More are men's ends marked than their lives before.The setting sun, the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past.

I care not a man can die but once we owe God a death.

The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch Which hurts and is desired.

Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it.

No 'tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door but 'tis enough 'twill serve: ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered I warrant for this world.

The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns.

I am dying Egypt dying.

To die: - to sleep: No more and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things . . . nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.

It provokes the desire but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him and it mars him; it sets him on and it takes him off.

At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows.

At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.

And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.

O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.