Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
This is the night
That either makes me or fordoes me quite.
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore
Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume.
So sweet was ne'er so fatal.
Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge
Had stomach for them all.
One entire and perfect chrysolite.
Curse his better angel from his side,
And fall to reprobation.
Every puny whipster.
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires.
I have done the state some service, and they know 't.
No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice. Then, must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought
Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand,
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away
Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinal gum.
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him, thus.
There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.
On the sudden
A Roman thought hath struck him.
This grief is crowned with consolation.
Give me to drink mandragora.
Where's my serpent of old Nile?
A morsel for a monarch.
My salad days,
When I was green in judgment.
Epicurean cooks
Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite.
Small to greater matters must give way.
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,
Burn'd on the water; the poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar'd all description.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety.
I have not kept my square; but that to come
Shall all be done by the rule.
'T was merry when
You wager'd on your angling; when your diver
Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he
With fervency drew up.
Come, thou monarch of the vine,
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!
