William Shakespeare Life Quotations

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

This life, which had been the tomb of his virtue and of his honour, is 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, signifying nothing.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.

Life every man holds dear; but the dear man holds honor far more precious dear than life.

Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

I am not bound to please thee with my answer.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!

The course of true love never did run smooth.

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

As he was valiant, I honour him. But as he was ambitious, I slew him.

You take my house when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house; you take my life When you do take the means whereby I live.

Even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering.

The happiest youth, viewing his progress through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, Would shut the book, and sit him down and die.

I see a man's life is a tedious one.

Ten masts make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life's a miracle.

The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow!

Life's uncertain voyage.

I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.

Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects are tried.

I am sure care's an enemy to life.

But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.

He is not great who is not greatly good.

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.

Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed.

It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.

So wise so young, they say, do never live long.

The object of Art is to give life a shape.

I bear a charmed life.

No legacy is so rich as honesty.

Lay aside life-harming heaviness, And entertain a cheerful disposition.

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, signifying nothing.

So dear I love him that with him, All deaths I could endure. Without him, live no life

There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

Life is a tale told by an idiot -- full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale.

Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it

But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool;And time, that takes survey of all the world,Must have a stop.

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

On a day - alack the day! - Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air

Her father lov'd me; oft invited me; Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd.

Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep.

So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend, or be rid on't.

Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant, There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys; renown, and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.

That but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'ld jump the life to come.

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself.

This day I breathed first: time is come round, And where I did begin there shall I end; My life is run his compass.

I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself.

The sands are number'd that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long, If life did ride upon a dial's point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour.

And a man's life's no more than to say "One."

Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee.

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe. And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale.

O excellent! I love long life better than figs.

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?

We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail.

Be not afraid of greatness.

Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.

Let life be short, else shame will be too long.

Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won

Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither. Ripeness is all.

. . . nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As 'twere a careless trifle.

Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, Where death's approach is seen so terrible!

Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt Is once to be resolved.

And my poor fool is hanged! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, Never, Never, Never, Never! Pray you, undo this button.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our own virtues.

Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!

We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurred the worst

Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.

If fortune torments me, hope contents me.

The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.

Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.

We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

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

The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life

His life was gentle, and the elements / So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up / And say to all the world, / This was a man!

All is but toys: renown, and grace, is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of

All that glisters is not gold.Often you have heard that told:Many a man his life hath soldBut my outside to behold:Gilded tombs do worms enfold.

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, Signifying nothing.