For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her
Romeo.
William
Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 1595 |
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw
true beauty till this night.
William
Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 1595 |
These violent delights have violent ends // And in their triump
die, like fire and powder // Which, as they kiss, consume.
William
Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 1595 |
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
William
Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 1595 |
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!
William
Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601 |
I grow, I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards.
William
Shakespeare, King Lear, 1603-1606, # 1, 2 |
We are all bastards; // And that most venerable
man which I // Did call my father, was I know not where // When I was
stampdd; some coin with tools // Made me a counterfeit ....
William
Shakespeare, Cymbeline, 1610, # 2, 5, 1 |
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