William Shakespeare

Who wooed in haste, and means to wed at leisure.

The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.

One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.

We must love men, ere to us they will seem worthy of our love.

He makes a July's day short as December.

When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on. What cannot be preserved when fortune takes, Patience her injury a mockery makes. The robb'd that smiles steals something for the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.

The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.

Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession.

This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.

But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live.

As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford's approach, and in her invention, and Ford's wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

The attempt and not the deed confounds us.

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!

Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth

Welcome ever smiles, and farewell goes out sighing.

Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.

Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare, To digg the dust encloased heare! Blest be the man that spares thes stones, And curst be he that moves my bones.

If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.

I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.

His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles; his love sincere, his thoughts immaculate; his tears pure messengers sent from his heart; his heart as far from fraud, as heaven from earth