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

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.

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.

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.

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...

And nothing is, but what is not.

If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul.

The sweetest honey is loathsome in its own deliciousness. And in the taste destroys the appetite. Therefore, love moderately.

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.

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

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale.

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.

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frostsFall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.

Ram. My lord constable, the armor that I saw in your tent to-night, are those stars or suns upon it?Con. Stars, my lord.Dau. Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope.Con. And yet my sky shall not want.Dau. That may be, for you bear a many superfluously, and ’twere more honor some were away.Con. Even...

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...

Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing,— For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

You gotta be cruel to be kind.

Dame los puñales; los que duermen y los muertos no son sino sombras; únicamente los ojos de los niños tiemblan ante una estampa del diablo.

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, action nor utterance, nor the power of speech, to stir men’s blood. I only speak right on. I tell you that which you yourselves do know.

…the spring, the summer,The chilling autumn, angry winter, changeTheir wonted liveries; and the mazed worldBy their increase, now knows not which is which.

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we: For such as we are made of, such we be

But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament

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

No temáis a la grandeza; algunos nacen grandes, algunos logran grandeza, a algunos la grandeza les es impuesta y a otros la grandeza les queda grande.

The fiend gives the more friendly counsel.

He was a man, take him for all in all,I shall not look upon his like again.

His jest shall savour but a shallow wit, when thousands more weep than did laugh it.

Come, sir, come,I’ll wrestle with you in my strength of love.Look, here I have you, thus I let you go,And give you to the gods.

Were such things here as we do speak about?Or have we eaten on the insane rootThat takes the reason prisoner?

I am not what I am..

Women may fail when there is no strength in man

Diseases desperate grown,By desperate appliance are relieved,Or not at all.

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...

it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance

Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;Filths savour but themselves…

Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtue we write in water.

Beshrew your eyes,They have o’erlook’d me and divided me;One half of me is yours, the other half yours,Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,And so all yours.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where menMay read strange matters. To beguile the time,Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,But be the serpent under’t.

I have no spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itselfAnd falls on the other.

Sweet are the uses of adversityWhich, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.