“From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;
They are the books, the arts, the academes,
That show, contain, and nourish all the world.”
—Berowne in Love’s Labor’s Lost
“But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”
—from “Sonnet 8”
To be, or not to be
These words are razors to my wounded heart
Can one desire too much of a good thing?
what ‘s done is done
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Now is the winter of our discontent
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Off with his head!
The course of true love never did run smooth
To be, or not to be: that is the question.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness
Good Night, Good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief
Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red
This above all: to thine own self be true.
Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself, and falls on the other
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
A man can die but once
Though this be madness, yet there is method in ‘t
The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Having nothing, nothing can he lose
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under ‘t.”
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him
The lady doth protest too much, methinks
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
All the world ‘s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts
Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come