William Shakespeare

“Here lies awretched corse, of wretched soul bereft:Seek not my name: a plague consume you wickedcaitiffs left!Here lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men did hate:Pass by and curse thy fill, but pass and staynot here thy gait.”

“Lips, let sour words go by and language end:What is amiss plague and infection mend!Graves only be men's works and death their gain!Sun, hide thy beams! Timon hath done his reign.”

“Commend me to them,And tell them that, to ease them of their griefs,Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses,Their pangs of love, with other incident throesThat nature's fragile vessel doth sustainIn life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them:I'll teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades' wrath.First Senator I like this well; he will return again.TIMON I have a tree, which grows here in my close,That mine own use invites me to cut down,And shortly must I fell it: tell my friends,Tell Athens, in the sequence of degreeFrom high to low throughout, that whoso pleaseTo stop affliction, let him take his haste,Come hither, ere my tree hath felt the axe,And hang himself. I pray you, do my greeting.”

“Worthy Timon,--TIMON Of none but such as you, and you of Timon.”

“Look thee, 'tis so! Thou singly honest man,Here, take: the gods out of my miseryHave sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy;But thus condition'd: thou shalt build from men;Hate all, curse all, show charity to none,But let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone,Ere thou relieve the beggar; give to dogsWhat thou deny'st to men; let prisons swallow 'em,Debts wither 'em to nothing; be men likeblasted woods,And may diseases lick up their false bloods!And so farewell and thrive.FLAVIUS O, let me stay,And comfort you, my master.TIMON If thou hatest curses,Stay not; fly, whilst thou art blest and free:Ne'er see thou man, and let me ne'er see thee.”

“A beastly ambition, which the gods grant thee t'attain to! If thou wert the lion, the fox wouldbeguile thee; if thou wert the lamb, the fox wouldeat three: if thou wert the fox, the lion wouldsuspect thee, when peradventure thou wert accused bythe ass: if thou wert the ass, thy dulness wouldtorment thee, and still thou livedst but as abreakfast to the wolf: if thou wert the wolf, thygreediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldsthazard thy life for thy dinner: wert thou theunicorn, pride and wrath would confound thee andmake thine own self the conquest of thy fury: wertthou a bear, thou wouldst be killed by the horse:wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by theleopard: wert thou a leopard, thou wert german tothe lion and the spots of thy kindred were jurors onthy life: all thy safety were remotion and thydefence absence. What beast couldst thou be, thatwere not subject to a beast? and what a beast artthou already, that seest not thy loss intransformation!”

“A fool of thee: depart.APEMANTUS I love thee better now than e'er I did.TIMON I hate thee worse.”

“This is in thee a nature but infected;A poor unmanly melancholy sprungFrom change of fortune. Why this spade? this place?This slave-like habit? and these looks of care?Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft;Hug their diseased perfumes, and have forgotThat ever Timon was. Shame not these woods,By putting on the cunning of a carper.Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thriveBy that which has undone thee: hinge thy knee,And let his very breath, whom thou'lt observe,Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain,And call it excellent: thou wast told thus;Thou gavest thine ears like tapsters that bid welcomeTo knaves and all approachers: 'tis most justThat thou turn rascal; hadst thou wealth again,Rascals should have 't. Do not assume my likeness.”

“let not thy sword skip one:Pity not honour'd age for his white beard;He is an usurer: strike me the counterfeit matron;It is her habit only that is honest,Herself's a bawd: let not the virgin's cheekMake soft thy trenchant sword; for those milk-paps,That through the window-bars bore at men's eyes,Are not within the leaf of pity writ,But set them down horrible traitors: spare not the babe,Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;Think it a bastard, whom the oracleHath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,And mince it sans remorse: swear against objects;Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes;Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,Shall pierce a jot. There's gold to pay soldiers:Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent,Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone.”

“Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palateWith thy most operant poison! What is here?Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods,I am no idle votarist: roots, you clear heavens!Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair,Wrong right, base noble, old young, coward valiant.Ha, you gods! why this? what this, you gods? Why, thisWill lug your priests and servants from your sides,Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads:This yellow slaveWill knit and break religions, bless the accursed,Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thievesAnd give them title, knee and approbationWith senators on the bench: this is itThat makes the wappen'd widow wed again;”

“Timon will to the woods, where he shall findTh' unkindest beast more kinder than mankind.The gods confound - hear me, you good gods all -Th' Athenians both within and out that wall!And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow To the whole race of mankind, high and low!Amen.”

“These words are razors to my wounded heart".”

“Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.”

“We cannot fight for love as men may do; We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo.”

“Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk! When that this body did contain a spirit a kingdom for it was to small a bound. But now two paces of the vilest earth are room enough”

“Thou hast no figures nor no fantasiesWhich busy care draws in the brains of men;Therefore thou sleep’st so sound.Julius Caesar (2.1.248-251)”

“Men of few words are the best men."(3.2.41)”

“Thou most lying slave,Whom stripes may move, not kindness!”

“For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps,Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. UrchinsShall forth at vast of night that they may workAll exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinchedAs thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stingingThan bees that made 'em.”

“As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushedWith raven's feather from unwholesom fenDrop on you both! A southwest blow on yeAnd blister you all o'er!”

“Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himselfUpon thy wicked dam”

“Come, thou tortoise!”

“We will meet; and there we may rehearse mostobscenely and courageously.Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream. Spoken by Bottom, Act I Sc. 2”

“You should not have believ'd me, for virtue cannot soinoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I lov'd you not.”

“Modest doubt is call'd the beacon of the wise.”

“Tis a commodity that will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with ’t, while ’tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion; richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and the toothpick, which wear not now.”

“He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself, and should be buried in highways, out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese, consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by’t! Out with’t! within the year it will make itself two, which is a goodly increase, and the principal itself not much the worse. Away with ’t!”

“It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase, and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity, by being once lost, may be ten times found: by being ever kept, it is ever lost. ’Tis too cold a companion: away with ’t!”

“What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by.Richard loves Richard; that is, I and I.Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am.Then fly! What, from myself? Great reason why:Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself?Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any goodThat I myself have done unto myself?O, no! Alas, I rather hate myselfFor hateful deeds committed by myself.I am a villain. Yet I lie. I am not.Fool, of thyself speak well. Fool, do not flatter:My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,And every tongue brings in a several tale,And every tale condemns me for a villain.Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree;Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree;All several sins, all used in each degree,Throng to the bar, crying all, “Guilty! guilty!”I shall despair. There is no creature loves me,And if I die no soul will pity me.And wherefore should they, since that I myselfFind in myself no pity to myself?”

“Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.”

“There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.”

“O God of battles, steel my soldier's hearts.Possess them not with fear. Take from them nowThe sense of reckoning ere th' opposed numbersPluck their hearts from them.”

“Não podeis ministrar algum remédioA um espírito enfermo, e da memóriaArrancar-lhe uma dor enraizada, Apagar-lhe os escrúpulos gravados Na alma? Não conheceis algum nepenteCapaz de lhe extirpar a um peito inquieto A matéria que pesa insuportável No coração?”

“Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,And by opposing end them?”

“In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:It wearies me; you say it wearies you;But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,I am to learn;And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,That I have much ado to know myself.”

“Make not your thoughts your prisons.”

“I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist.”

“How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?”

“What, Lucius, ho!I cannot, by the progress of the stars,Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say!I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly.When, Lucius, when? awake, I say! what, Lucius!”

“The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,And flecked darkness like a drunkard reelsFrom forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels:Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,I must up-fill this osier cage of oursWith baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb;What is her burying grave that is her womb,And from her womb children of divers kindWe sucking on her natural bosom find,Many for many virtues excellent,None but for some and yet all different.O, mickle is the powerful grace that liesIn herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:For nought so vile that on the earth doth liveBut to the earth some special good doth give,Nor aught so good but strain'd from that fair useRevolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;And vice sometimes by action dignified.Within the infant rind of this small flowerPoison hath residence and medicine power:For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.Two such opposed kings encamp them stillIn man as well as herbs, grace and rude will;And where the worser is predominant,Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.”

“For man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.”

“Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie,And young affection gapes to be his heir;That fair for which love groan'd for and would die,With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.Now Romeo is beloved and loves again,Alike betwitched by the charm of looks,But to his foe supposed he must complain,And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks:Being held a foe, he may not have accessTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;And she as much in love, her means much lessTo meet her new-beloved any where:But passion lends them power, time means, to meetTempering extremities with extreme sweet.”

“Noi siamo della stessa materiaDi cui son fatti i sogniE la nostra piccola vitaÈ circondata da un sonno.”

“Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.”

“My father's spirit in arms! all is not well;I doubt some foul play: would the night were come!Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise,Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.”

“But that the dread of something after death,The undiscover'd country from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the willAnd makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?”

“Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.Harpier cries ’Tis time, ’tis time.Round about the cauldron go;In the poison’d entrails throw.Toad, that under cold stoneDays and nights has thirty-oneSwelter’d venom sleeping got,Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.Fillet of a fenny snake,In the cauldron boil and bake;Eye of newt and toe of frog,Wool of bat and tongue of dog,Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,For a charm of powerful trouble,Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,Witches’ mummy, maw and gulfOf the ravin’d salt-sea shark,Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,Liver of blaspheming Jew,Gall of goat, and slips of yewSilver’d in the moon’s eclipse,Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips,Finger of birth-strangled babeDitch-deliver’d by a drab,Make the gruel thick and slab:Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,For the ingredients of our cauldron.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn and cauldron bubble.By the pricking of my thumbs,Something wicked this way comes.”

“Thus weary of the world, away she hies,And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aidTheir mistress mounted through the empty skiesIn her light chariot quickly is convey'd;Holding their course to Paphos, where their queenMeans to immure herself and not be seen.”

“Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish,A vapor sometime like a bear or lion,A towered citadel, a pendant rock,A forked mountain, or blue promontoryWith trees upon't that nod unto the worldAnd mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen thesesigns:They are black vesper's pageants.”

“My love is as a fever, longing stillFor that which longer nurseth the disease;Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,The uncertain sickly appetite to please.My reason, the physician to my love,Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,Desire his death, which physic did except.Past cure I am, now reason is past care,And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,At random from the truth vainly express'd;For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.”