Quotes William Shakespeare - page 11
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Alas, our frailty is the cause , not we! For, such as we are made of, such we be.
Frailty, thy name is woman!
Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.
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Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
The summer's flow'r is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die'
But if that flow'r with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.
Fight valiantly to-day; and yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valor.
Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
Foul fiend of France and hag of all despite,
Encompassed with thy lustful paramours,
Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age
And twit with cowardice a man half dead?
Milk-livered man,
That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning
Thine honor from thy suffering; [that not know'st
Fools do those villains pity who are punished
Ere they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum?
France spreads his banners in our noiseless land,
With plumed helm thy state begins to threat,
Whilst thou, a moral fool, sits still and cries
'Alack, why does he so?']
Thou hast her, France; let her be thine, for we
Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see
That face of hers again. Therefore be gone
Without our grace, our love, our benison.
Tis better using France than trusting France;
Let us be back'd with God, and with the seas,
Which He hath given for fence impregnable,
And with their helps only defend ourselves;
In them, and in ourselves, our safety lies.
Can it be That modesty may more betray our sense Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough, Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary And pitch our evils there?
An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.
Now the time is come,
That France must veil her lofty-plumed crest,
And let her head fall into England's lap.
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The sands are number'd that make up my life;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
