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.
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.
It is an heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in’t.
Let us not burthen our remembrance withA heaviness that’s gone.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
Love is not love which alters it when alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: O no! It is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wandering bark whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy...
To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently abeast!
should” is like a spendthrift sighThat hurts by easing.
Our reasons are not prophets When oft our fancies are.
Go, prick thy face and over-red thy fear,Thou lily-livered boy.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,/ Wherein the…enemy does much.
There are occasions and causes, why and wherefore in all things.
La vida es mi tortura y la muerte será mi descanso.
For some must watch, while some must sleep So runs the world away
Beauty itself doth of itself persuadeThe eyes of men without orator.
O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!–Hamlet (I, v, 106)
When Rosencrantz asks Hamlet, “Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your grief to your friends”(III, ii, 844-846), Hamlet responds, “Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem...
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet
To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow
There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’stBut in his motion like an angel sings,Still quiring [making music] to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls,But whilst this muddy vesture of decayDoth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it.
But man, proud man,Dress’d in a little brief authority,Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d—His glassy essence—like an angry apePlays such fantastic tricks before high heavenAs makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens,Would all themselves laugh mortal.
From this day to the ending of the world,But we in it shall be remembered-We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;For he to-day that sheds his blood with meShall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,This day shall gentle his condition;And gentlemen in England now-a-bedShall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,And...