I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that’s in me should set hell on fire.

A friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have become, and still, gently allows you to grow.

When I got enough confidence, the stage was gone. When I was sure of losing, I won. When I needed people the most, they left me. When I learnt to dry my tears, I found a shoulder to cry on. And when I mastered the art of hating, somebody started loving me.

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.

In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em.

Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.

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.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping.

Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more!Macbeth does murder sleep, – the innocent sleep;Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week?Or sells eternity to get a toy?For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

Friar Laurence:O, mickle is the powerful grace that liesIn herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities: For nought to vile that on the earth doth live, But to the earth some special good doth give; nor aught so good, but, strain’d from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: Virtue itself turns...

Love’s stories written in love’s richest books.To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.

A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain, dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapors which environ it, makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which, delivered o’er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent...

They are but beggars that can count their worth.

Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

We know what we are, but not what we may be.

All dark and comfortless.

Antioch, farewell! for wisdom sees, those men blush not in actions blacker than the night, will ‘schew no course to keep them from the light. One sin, I know, another doth provoke; Murder’s as near to lust as flame to smoke. Poison and treason are the hands of sin; Ay, and the targets to put...

The death of each days life

Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit,And look on death itself!

If I turn mine eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest;

Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.

The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.

Each new mornNew widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrowsStrike heaven on the face, that it resoundsAs if it felt with Scotland, and yelled outLike syllable of dolor.

GON. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!ANT. The ground indeed is tawny.SEB. With an eye of green in ‘t.ANT. He misses not much.SEB. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle’s compass come.

What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,That he should weep for her?

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?Scorn and derision never come in tears:Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born,In their nativity all truth appears.How can these things in me seem scorn to you,Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?

O, that’s a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely,

Ay,sir;to be honest,as this world goes,is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.

DEMETRIUSRelent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yieldThy crazed title to my certain right.LYSANDERYou have her father’s love, Demetrius;Let me have Hermia’s: do you marry him.

CASSIO: Dost thou hear, my honest friend?CLOWN: No, I hear not your honest friend, I hear you.CASSIO: Prithee, keep up thy quillets.

Though she be but little, she is fierce!

I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!

I know you all, and will awhile uphold the unyoked humour of your idleness . . .

He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.

My brain I’ll prove the female to my soul; my soul the father: and these two beget a generation of still-breeding thoughts, and these same thoughts people this little world.

Ela teria de morrer, mais cedo ou mais tarde. Morta. Mais tarde haveria um tempo para essa palavra. Amanhã, e amanhã, e ainda outro amanhã arrastam-se nessa passada trivial do dia para a noite, da noite para o dia, até a última sílaba do registro dos tempos. E todos os nossos ontens não fizeram mais...

A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.

Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise.

This above all: To your own self, be true.

And thus I clothe my naked villainyWith odd old ends stol’n out of holy writ;And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument

Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale.

My love is as a fever, longing stillFor that which longer nurseth the disease;Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,The uncertain sickly appetite to please.My reason, the physician to my love,Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,Desire his death, which physic did except.Past cure I am, now...