Quotes to inspire and reflect

Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.

I saw young Harry, with his beaver on.

To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

Baited like eagles having lately bath’d… As full of spirit as the month of May, And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer.

To set the exact wealth of all our states All at one cast? to set so rich a main On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?

The very life-blood of our enterprise.

The end of life cancels all bands.

He was but as the cuckoo is in June, Heard, not regarded.

My near’st and dearest enemy.

They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much.

A good mouth-filling oath.

A deal of skimble-skamble stuff.

I understand thy kisses and thou mine, And that’s a feeling disputation.

But in the way of bargain, mark you me, I’ll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

’Tis like the forc’d gait of a shuffling nag.

I had rather be a kitten and cry mew, Than one of these same meter ballad-mongers.

Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep. Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come when you do call for them?

Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions.

I am not in the roll of common men.

And lards the lean earth as he walks along.

Constant you are, But yet a woman: and for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know; And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.

By heaven methinks it were an easy leap To pluck bright honor from the pale-fac’d moon, Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned honor by the locks.

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!

O! the blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare!

To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke.

So pester’d with a popinjay.

God save the mark!

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corpse Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress’d, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new-reap’d, Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home: He was perfumed like a milliner, And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose and took ’t away again.

You tread upon my patience.

I know you all, and will a while uphold The unyok’d humor of your idleness: Yet herein will I imitate the sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapors that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work.

So shaken as we are, so wan with care.

Over whose acres walk’d those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail’d For our advantage on the bitter cross.

For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.

Thy drugs are quick.

Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!

How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry!

Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death’s pale flag is not advanced there.

Tempt not a desperate man.

One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book.

The time and my intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.

Of twenty men.

Past hope, past cure, past help!

Apothecary: My poverty, but not my will, consents. Romeo: I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.

Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?

The lark, the herald of the morn.