Coriolanus, Act 5, Scene 3, Lines 182-189
Coriolanus: Oh, mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. Oh my mother, mother! Oh! You have won a happy victory to Rome; But for your son — believe it, oh, believe it! — Most dangerously you have with him prevailed, If not most mortal to him. But let it come.
The little love god lying once asleep Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand The fairest votary took up that fire Which many legions of true hearts had warmed, And so the general of hot desire Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarmed. This brand she quenchèd in a cool well by, Which from...
Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 7, Lines 167-184
Queen: There is a willow grows askant the brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; Therewith fantastic garlands did she make Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds did give a grosser name, But our cold mads do dead men’s fingers call them. There on their pendent boughs her crownet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver...
Coriolanus, Act 4, Scene 7, Lines 1-12
Aufidius: Do they still fly to th’ Roman? Lieutenant: I do not know what witchcraft’s in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace ‘fore meat, They talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are darkened in this action, sir, Even by your own. Aufidius: I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more...
shakespearean-insults-deactivat asked: Thou art a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way! Hence horrible villain or I'll spurn thine eyes like balls before me; I'll unhair thy head! Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire,...
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain, Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express The manner of my pity-wanting pain. If I might teach thee wit, better it were, Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so, As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, No news but health from their physicians know. For if I should despair, I should grow...
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will, Act 1, Scene 1,...
Orsino: If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die.
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change. Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange; They are but dressings of a former sight, Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old, And rather make them born to our desire Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not...
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will, Act 2, Scene 4,...
Feste [sings]: Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, Oh prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet ...
Some say thy fault is in youth, some wantonness; Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; Both grace and faults are loved of more and less; Thou mask’st faults graces that to thee resort. As on the finger of a thronèd queen The basest jewel will be well esteemed, So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths translated and for true things deemed. How many lambs might the...
Coriolanus, Act 3, Scene 3, Lines 126-145
Brutus: There’s no more to be said, but he is banished As enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so. All Plebians: It shall be so, it shall be so! Coriolanus: You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate As reek o’th’ rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you! And here remain with your...
Richard III, Act 4, Scene 4, Lines 184-196
Duchess of York: Either thou wilt die, by God’s just ordinance, Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror, Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish And never look upon thy face again. Therefore take with thee my most heavy curse; Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st! My prayers on the adverse party fight; And there the...
From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty’s rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel: Thou that art now the world...
Much Ado About Nothing, Act 4, Scene 1, Lines...
Claudio: O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been If half thy outward graces had been placed About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! Farewell, Thou pure impiety and impious purity! For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love, And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, And never shall it more be...
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now, Will be a totter’d weed of small worth held: Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more...
Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 3, Lines 4-10
First Witch: A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap, And munched, and munched, and munched. “Give me,” quoth I. “Aroint thee, witch!” the rump-fed runnion cries. Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’th’ Tiger; But in a sieve I’ll thither sail, And like a rat without a tail I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.
Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1, Lines 57-91
Hamlet: 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; [[MORE]]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...
Othello, Act 5, Scene 2, Lines 311-312
Iago: Demand me nothing: what you know, you know: From this time forth I never will speak word.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometimes declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed. But thy eternal summer...
Much Ado About Nothing, Act 4, Scene 1, Lines...
Benedick: I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is that not strange?
Othello, Act 3, Scene 3, Lines 178-183
Iago: O, beware, my lord, of jealousy. It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss, Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger: But oh, what damnèd minutes tells he o’er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet fondly loves!
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet...
Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 7, Lines 140-149
Laertes: I will do ’t. And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death That is but scratched withal. I’ll touch my point With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly It may be death.
Richard III, Act 1, Scene 1, Lines 1-41
Richard III: Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York; And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. [[MORE]] Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his...
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time that face should form another; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother, For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in...