William Shakespeare

The rain, it raineth every day.

All things are ready, if our mind be so.

Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

I do desire we may be better strangers.

This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.

Time does not have the same appeal for every one

The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.

The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit

I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.

To unpathed waters, undreamed shores.

But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.

We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.

Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.

Truth is truth to the end of reckoning.