The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (37 plays, 160 sonnets and 5 Poetry Books With Active Table of Contents)

by William Shakespeare

But thankful even for hate that is meant love.

But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her.

You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

And why, my Lady Wisdom?

Graze where you will, you shall not house with me.

Thursday is near, lay hand on heart, advise. And you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend; And you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.

I think it best you married with the County.

Speak’st thou from thy heart?

If all else fail, myself have power to die.

And in his wisdom hastes our marriage, To stop the inundation of her tears, Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society.

Come weep with me, past hope, past [cure], past help!

If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, Do thou but call my resolution wise, And with this knife I’ll help it presently.

Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!

Ready to go, but never to return.—

I dreamt my lady came and found me dead— Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—

By heaven, I love thee better than myself, For I come hither arm’d against myself.

A greater power than we can contradict Hath thwarted our intents.

Came to this vault, to die and lie with Juliet.

O brother Montague, give me thy hand. This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more Can I demand.

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

But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?

Calphurnia!

Julius wife, Calpurnia.

When Caesar says, “Do this,” it is perform’d.

Beware the ides of March.

You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you.

What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king.

For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death.

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.

There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d Th’ eternal devil to keep his state in Rome As easily as a king.

He thinks too much; such men are dangerous.

He reads much, He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men.

I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar.

He fell down in the market-place, and foam’d at mouth, and was speechless.

And why should Caesar be a tyrant then?

O Cassius, if you could But win the noble Brutus to our party—

“Brutus, thou sleep’st; awake!”

But honors you; and every one doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you.

It shall be said his judgment rul’d our hands;

Speaking of Cicero.

Shall no man else be touch’d but only Caesar?

Let’s be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius.

When beggars die there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

Cowards die many times before their deaths, The valiant never taste of death but once.

Your wisdom is consum’d in confidence.

And know it now: the Senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar.

“Break up the Senate till another time, When Caesar’s wife shall meet with better dreams.”

If thou beest not immortal, look about you; security gives way to conspiracy.

I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might.

What touches us ourself shall be last serv’d.

I could be well mov’d, if I were as you; If I could pray to move, prayers would move me; But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.

Caesar isn't Brutus.