Shakespeare Quotes

How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, Reason none, If what parts, can so remain.

Timon: I’ll beat thee, but I should infect my hands.

Timon: Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon!

What sad, short lives humans live! Each life a short pamphlet written by an idiot! Tut-tut, and all that.

I’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two and wear my dagger with the braver grace

The rest is silence.

I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part.

Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth.

And shake the yoke of inauspicious starsFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!

To give yourself away keep yourself still, And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.

Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, And die as fast as they see others grow.

I have more care to staythan will to go.

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness, And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong humour.He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak. 'Tis charity to show.

BEROWNE: What time o' day?ROSALINE: The hour that fools should ask.

By this reckoning he is more a shrew than she.

For I am born to tame you, Kate, And bring you from a wild Kate to a KateComfortable as other household Kates.

Of all matches never was the like.

Mother, I will look to like. If looking liking moves.

I have drunk, and seen the spider."(Leontine, Act II Scene I)

From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:They are the ground, the books, the academes, From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.

Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts.

Weaving spiders, come not here, Hence, you long legged spinners, hence! Beetles black, approach not here, worm nor snail, do no offense.

Reply not to me with a fool-born jest.

Go, prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-livered boy.

Impressive, most impressive, worthy lad, Thine Obi-Wan hath taught thee well, and thouHast master'd all thy fears. Now, go! ReleaseThine anger, for thy hate alone can strikeMe down!

Of all mad matches never was the likeBeing mad herself, she’s madly mated.

The curse of true love never did run smooth.

Get you gone, you dwarf, You minimus of hindering knotgrass made, You bead, you acorn!

Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh, Your vows to her and me, put in two scales, Will even weigh, and both as light as tales.

They say an old man is twice a child

The fiend gives the more friendly counsel.

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey?

Mad I call it, for to define true madness, what is't to be nothing else but mad?

Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.

He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

In my mind's eye

That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet

You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives and conned them out of rings?

JAQUES: Rosalind is your love's name?ORLANDO: Yes, just.JAQUES: I do not like her name.ORLANDO: There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.

Hang there like a fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!-Posthumus LeonatusAct V, Scene V

You gotta be cruel to be kind.

Diseases desperate grown, By desperate appliance are relieved, Or not at all.

Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fairTo be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.

Lucentio: I read that I profess, the Art of Love.Bianca: And may you prove, sir, master of your art!Lucentio: While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart!

I think he'll be to Rome as is the osprey to the fish, who takes it by sovereignty of nature.

Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not because they are mistaken for realities, but because they bring realities to mind.

Shakespeare opens a mine which contains gold and diamonds in unexhaustible plenty, though clouded by incrustations, debased by impurities, and mingled with a mass of meaner minerales.

O ill-starred wench! Pale as your smock!

More grief to hide than hate to utter love. Polonius, Hamlet.

I have never thought that the man of Stratford-on-Avon wrote the plays of Shakespeare.