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- Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Timon of Athens", Act 3 scene 1
- This England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "King John", Act 5 scene 7
- For aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "A Midsummer Night's Dream", Act 1 scene 1
- A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Love's Labour's Lost", Act 5 scene 2
- Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Much Ado about Nothing", Act 2 scene 1
- Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "The Two Gentlemen of Verona", Act 1 scene 1
- Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "The Tempest", Act 4 scene 1
- I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Othello", Act 1 scene 1
- 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 heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,--'t is 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. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Hamlet", Act 3 scene 1
- Every man has business and desire,
Such as it is. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Hamlet", Act 1 scene 5
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