Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
The early village cock
Hath twice done salutation to the morn.
By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers.
The selfsame heaven
That frowns on me looks sadly upon him.
A thing devised by the enemy.
I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die:
I think there be six Richmonds in the field.
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!
Order gave each thing view.
No man's pie is freed
From his ambitious finger.
Anger is like
A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way,
Self-mettle tires him.
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
That it do singe yourself.
'T is but the fate of place, and the rough brake
That virtue must go through.
The mirror of all courtesy.
This bold bad man.
'T is better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perked up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing.
'T is well said again,
And 't is a kind of good deed to say well:
And yet words are no deeds.
And then to breakfast with
What appetite you have.
I have touched the highest point of all my greatness;
And from that full meridian of my glory
I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
Press not a falling man too far!
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have:
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience.
A load would sink a navy.
And sleep in dull cold marble.
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
