William Shakespeare

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

The let-alone lies not in your good will.

By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has, nor never none Shall mistress be of it save I alone.

We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.

In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.

Don't trust the person who has broken faith once.

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.

My only love sprung from my only hate.

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?

I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.

Wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty like a Scotch jig--and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes repentance and with his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.

By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next

The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.

He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.

Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.

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

The Brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing, and think it were not night.

Enough no more; Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

Why what a fool was I to this drunken monster for a God. - Caliban