Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
More matter with less art.
You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below
I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
A man can smile and smile and be a villain.
One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!
woah is me to have seen what i seen see what i see
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
From this time forth My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee.
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?
What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven?
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
I shall the effect of this good lesson keeps as watchman to my heart.
You speak like a green girl / unsifted in such perilous circumstances.
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.
I must be cruel only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
With devotion's visage and pious action we do sugar o'er the devil himself.
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!
To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life.
Murder most foul, as in the best it it; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.
He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
I do not set my life at a pin's fee, And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself?
You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.
But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.
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 wished.
The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
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?