Quotes William Shakespeare - page 12
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Cheerily to sea; the signs of war advance: No king of England, if not king of France
in that small [time] most greatly lived this star of England: Fortune made his sword, By which the world's best garden he achiev'd And left it to his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd King of France and England did this King succeed; Whose state so many of had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed.
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful I take up what's cast away. Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect My love should kindle to inflamed respect. Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Can buy this unprized precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: Thou losest here, a better where to find.
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How many cowards whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who inward searched, have livers white as milk!
How my achievements mock me!
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.
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
A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers.
I heard a bustling rumor like a fray,
And the wind blows it from the Capitol.
The latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast, Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.
When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!
This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.
What light through yonder window breaks?
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Though now this grained face of mine be hid
In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow,
And all the conduits of my blood froze up,
Yet hath my night of life some memory,
My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,
My dull deaf ears a little use to hear.
