William Shakespeare War Quotations

He that is truly dedicated to war hath no self-love

The hideous god of war.

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night, The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fixed sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other's watch. Fire answers fire, and through their play flames Each battle sees the other's umbered face. Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents The armorers accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation.

That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

Were it good 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? It were not good.

The undeserver may sleep when the man of action is called on.

All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent.

It is war's prize to take all vantages; And ten to one is no impeach of valor.

Shall we upon the footing of our land Send fair-play orders, and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truce, To arms invasive?

Religious canons, civil laws, are cruel; then what should war be?

Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies; Now thrive the armorers, and honor's thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man.

Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood; Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.

In God's name cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war.

Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, th' ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!

Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars That make ambition virtue.

The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.

Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud's town march, And in the temple of the great Jupiter Our peace we'll ratify, seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were washed, with such a peace.

War is no strife To the dark house and the detested wife.

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.

If it be honor in your wars to seem The same you are not,--which, for your best ends, You adopt your policy--how is it less or worse, That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour, as in war: since that to both It stands in like request?

For I can raise no money by vile means. By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas

Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery: nothing else holds fashion.

Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.

A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers.

We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man.

Come the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock them.

Fight to the last gasp.

To whom God will, there be the victory.

Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.

I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways.

Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

A man can die but once.

There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old.

O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.

The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.

I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.

Every subject's duty is the King's; but every subject's soul is his own. Therefore, should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience; and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him that escapes, it were no sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive the day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare.

Care for us! True, indeed! They ne'er cared for us yet: suffer us to famish, and their storehouses crammed with grain; make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there's all the love they bear us.

Cheerily to sea; the signs of war advance: No king of England, if not king of France

If there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it, Making it momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!' The jaws of darkness do devour it up; So quick bright things come to confusion.

This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,--This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

O war! thou son of Hell!

... I am At war 'twixt will and will not.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings:— How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd...

Then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.

I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace.

Withal I did infer your lineaments, Being the right idea of your father, Both in your form and nobleness of mind; Laid open all your victories in Scotland, Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, Your bounty, virtue, fair humility; Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose Untouch'd or slightly handled in discourse.

Beware the leader who bangs the drums of war in order to whip the citizenry into a patriotic fervor.

Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; . . . . Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.

Cry "havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.

O how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes favors! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have, and when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!

In peace there's nothing so becomes a manAs modest stillness and humility;But when the blast of war blows in our ears,Then imitate the action of the tiger:Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide,Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spiritTo his full height!

One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.