Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
When workmen strive to do better than well, They do confound their skill in covetousness, And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patched.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if me my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.
Cowards die many times before their deaths;The valiant never taste of death but once.
E'en a crow o' th' same nest; not altogether so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil. He excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreat he outruns any lackey; marry, in coming on he has the cramp.
Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart shall be found an ass.
You souls of geese, That bear the shapes of men, how have you run From slaves that apes would men!
So cowards fight when they can fly no further; So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons; So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.
Thou dost shame That bloody spoil. Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety!
Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' Like the poor cat i' th' adage?
How many cowards whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who inward searched, have livers white as milk!
A coward, a most devout coward; religious in it.
The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burrs, Losing both beauty and utility.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be. In their gold coats spots you see: Those be rubies, fairy favors; In those freckles live their savors.
Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale. Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to th' rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, While night's black agents to their prey do rouse.
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended; and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many thing by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!
I must be cruel only to be kind.
See what a rent the envious Casca made.
Men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty To load a falling man.
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive If you will these graces to the grave, And leave the world no copy.
And you, enchantment, Worthy enough a herdsman--yea, him too, That makes himself, but for our honor therein, Unworthy thee-if ever henceforth thou These rural latches to his entrance open, Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, I will devise a death as cruel for thee As thou art tender to't.
At land indeed Thou dost o'ercount me of my father's house: But since the cuckoo builds not for himself, Remain in't as thou mayst.
And, being fed by us, you used us so As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo's bird, Useth the sparrow--did oppress our nest; . . .
When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men: for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear!
I would I had some flowers o' th' spring that might Become your time of day, and yours, and yours, That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing. O, Proserpina, For the flowers now that, frighted, thou let'st fall From Dis's wagon; daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength--a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one.
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentany as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night, That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!' The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion.
