Quotes from William Shakespeare

Men that hazard allDo it in hope of fair advantages:A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross.

So far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not, I have used my credit.

Is it a world to hide virtues in?

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.

A good man's fortune may grow out at heels.

I am giddy, expectation whirls me round.The imaginary relish is so sweetThat it enchants my sense.

Must I hold a candle to my shames?

God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defacedThe rich proud cost of outworn buried age,When sometime lofty towers I see down-rasedAnd brass eternal slave to mortal rage;When I have seen the hungry ocean gainAdvantage on the kingdom of the shore,And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main,Increasing store with loss and loss with store.

I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit, till I break my shins against it.

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime.

A pair of star-cross'd lovers.

He hath a daily beauty in his life.

If music be the food of love, play on;Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,The appetite may sicken, and so die.That strain again! it had a dying fall:O! it came o'er my ear like the sweet soundThat breathes upon a bank of violets,Stealing and giving odor!

One writ with me in sour misfortune's book.

I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.

An honest, exceeding poor man.

I'll prove more trueThan those that have more cunning to be strange.

I was not born under a riming planet.

The painful warrior famoused for fight,After a thousand victories, once foil'd,Is from the books of honor razed quite,And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd.

Is this a dagger which I see before me,The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.Art thou not, fatal vision, sensibleTo feeling as to sight? or art thou butA dagger of the mind, a false creation,Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?

O my prophetic soul!My uncle!

Had I but died an hour before this chanceI had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant,There's nothing serious in mortality,All is but toys; renown and grace is dead,The wine of life is drawn, and the mere leesIs left this vault to brag of.