Published on February 27th, 2018
The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
We know what we are, but not what we may be.
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find.
You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
Though she be but little, she is fierce!
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d!
These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triump die, like fire and powder
Which, as they kiss, consume
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
The course of true love never did run smooth.