Quotes About Quote

Proper deformity shows not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.

No, sure, my lord, my mother cried, but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.

Thou hast nor youth nor age But as it were an after dinner sleep Dreaming of both.

What is in that word honor? What is that honor? Air. A trim reckoning. Who hath it? He that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. 'Tis insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I'll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.

Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE What is Thisby? a wandering knight? QUINCE It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.

William Shakespeare

Where is Polonius? - In heaven; send hither to see: if your messenger find him not there, seek him i' the other place yourself.

What soilders whey-face? The English for so please you. Take thy face hence.

I would forget it fain, But oh, it presses to my memory, Like damnèd guilty deeds to sinners' minds.

What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

Men's eyes were made to look, let them gaze, I will budge for no man's pleasure.

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

O! That way madness lies.

Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. (Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, IV)

Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.

Do all men kill all the things they do not love? Shylock: Hates any man the thing he would not kill? Bassanio: Every offence is not a hate at first.

We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.

Tis too much proved—that with devotion's visage And pious action we do sugar o'er The devil himself.

Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, It helps not, it prevails not.

Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called 'fools'.