I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
The world must be peopled!
Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!
Thou frothy tickle-brained hedge-pig!
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.
thou art the best o' the cut-throats
A Devil, a born Devil on whose nature, nurture can never stick, on whom my pain, humanly taken, all lost, quite lost.
Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?
Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.
What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her, she would infect to the north star!
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean
For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
I do love nothing in the world so well as you- is not that strange?
Sycorax has grown into a hoop
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: