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
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.
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...
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...
Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
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...
Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit,And look on death itself!
The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.
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?
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.
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 . . .
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...
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
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...