Quotes
from William Shakespeare - The fool doth think he is wise
“The
fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
―
William Shakespeare, As You Like It
“Love
all, trust a few,
Do
wrong to none: be able for thine enemy
Rather
in power than use; and keep thy friend
Under
thy own life's key: be check'd for silence,
But
never tax'd for speech.”
―
William Shakespeare, All's Well That Ends Well
“Love
looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing'd Cupid
painted blind. Nor hath love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes
figure unheedy haste: And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in
choice he is so oft beguil'd.”
―
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
“Be
not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and
others have greatness thrust upon them.”
―
William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
“Doubt
thou the stars are fire;
Doubt
that the sun doth move;
Doubt
truth to be a liar;
But
never doubt I love.”
―
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
“The
fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”
―
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
“Hell
is empty and all the devils are here.”
―
William Shakespeare, The Tempest
“There
is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
―
William Shakespear, Hamlet
“This
above all: to thine own self be true,
And
it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou
canst not then be false to any man.”
―
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
“It
is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”
―
William Shakespeare
“When
he shall die,
Take
him and cut him out in little stars,
And
he will make the face of heaven so fine
That
all the world will be in love with night
And
pay no worship to the garish sun.”
―
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
“If
music be the food of love, play on;
Give
me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The
appetite may sicken, and so die.
That
strain again! it had a dying fall:
O,
it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound,
That
breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing
and giving odour! Enough; no more:
'Tis
not so sweet now as it was before.
O
spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,
That,
notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth
as the sea, nought enters there,
Of
what validity and pitch soe'er,
But
falls into abatement and low price,
Even
in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy
That
it alone is high fantastical.”
―
William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
“We
know what we are, but not what we may be.”
―
William Shakespeare
“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,
His
acts being seven ages.”
―
William Shakespeare, As You Like It
“These
violent delights have violent ends
And
in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which
as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey
Is
loathsome in his own deliciousness
And
in the taste confounds the appetite.
Therefore
love moderately; long love doth so;
Too
swift arrives as tardy as too slow.”
―
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
“You
speak an infinite deal of nothing.”
―
William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
“Words
are easy, like the wind; faithful friends are hard to find.”
―
William Shakespeare, The Passionate Pilgrim
“Though
she be but little, she is fierce!”
―
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
“To
be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether
'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or
to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And
by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No
more; and by a sleep to say we end
The
heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That
flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly
to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To
sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
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;
For
who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The
oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The
pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The
insolence of office and the spurns
That
patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When
he himself might his quietus make
With
a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To
grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But
that the dread of something after death,
The
undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No
traveller returns, puzzles the will
And
makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than
fly to others that we know not of?
Thus
conscience does make cowards of us all;
And
thus the native hue of resolution
Is
sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And
enterprises of great pith and moment
With
this regard their currents turn awry,
And
lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The
fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be
all my sins remember'd!”
―
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
