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

by William Shakespeare

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

Yea, but our valuation shall be such That every slight and false-derived cause, Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton reason, Shall to the King taste of this action, That were our royal faiths martyrs in love, We shall be winnow’d with so rough a wind That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff, And good from bad find no partition.

He cannot so precisely weed this land As his misdoubts present occasion. His foes are so enrooted with his friends That, plucking to unfix an enemy, He doth unfasten so and shake a friend, So that this land, like an offensive wife That hath enrag’d him on to offer strokes, As he is striking, holds his infant up And hangs resolv’d correction in the arm That was uprear’d to execution.

I pledge your Grace, and if you knew what pains I have bestowed to breed this present peace, You would drink freely. But my love to ye Shall show itself more openly hereafter.

A peace is of the nature of a conquest, For then both parties nobly are subdued, And neither party loser.

And all [my] friends, which thou must make thy friends, Have but their stings and teeth newly ta’en out; By whose fell working I was first advanc’d, And by whose power I well might lodge a fear To be again displac’d; which to avoid, I cut them off, and had a purpose now To lead out many to the Holy Land, Lest rest and lying still might make them look Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, Be it thy course to busy giddy minds With foreign quarrels, that action, hence borne out, May waste the memory of the former days.

It is certain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught, as men take diseases, one of another; therefore let men take heed of their company.

Trust none; For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes,

coward dogs Most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten Runs far before them.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin As self-neglecting.

Once more unto the breach,

“Knocks go and come; God’s vassals drop and die; And sword and shield, In bloody field, Doth win immortal fame.”

Would I were in an alehouse in London, I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.

So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be impos’d upon his father that sent him; or if a servant, under his master’s command transporting a sum of money, be assail’d by robbers and die in many irreconcil’d iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant’s damnation.

The King is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for they purpose not their death when they purpose their services.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England, now a-bed, Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here; And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart; but the saying is true, “The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.”

The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng: Let life be short, else shame will be too long.

Will you have some more sauce to your leek?

And while thou liv’st, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoin’d constancy, for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places; for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies’ favors, they do always reason themselves out again. What? a speaker is but a prater, a rhyme is but a ballad; a good leg will fall, a straight back will stoop, a black beard will turn white, a curl’d pate will grow bald, a fair face will wither, a full eye will wax hollow; but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon, or rather the sun and not the moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly.

Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What ’tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like A full hot horse, who being allow’d his way, Self-mettle tires him.

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself.

This from a dying man receive as certain: Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels, Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends And give your hearts to, when they once perceive The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye, never found again

Men’s evil manners live in brass, their virtues We write in water.

Affairs that walk (As they say spirits do) at midnight, have In them a wilder nature than the business That seeks dispatch by day.

Ye blew the fire that burns ye. Now have at ye!

To me you cannot reach you play the spaniel, And think with wagging of your tongue to win me;

In peace and honor rest you here, my sons, Rome’s readiest champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly chances and mishaps! Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, Here grow no damned drugs, here are no storms, No noise, but silence and eternal sleep. In peace and honor rest you here, my sons!

Young lords, beware! and should the Empress know This discord’s ground, the music would not please.

Dem. Villain, what hast thou done? Aar. That which thou canst not undo. Chi. Thou hast undone our mother. Aar. Villain, I have done thy mother.

Ben. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours? Rom. Not having that which, having, makes them short.

Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love. Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first [create]! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well[-seeming] forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die.

Mer. O then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agot-stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Over men’s noses as they lie asleep. Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out a’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers. Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs, The cover of the wings of grasshoppers, Her traces of the smallest spider web, Her collars of the moonshine’s wat’ry beams, Her whip of cricket’s bone, the lash of film, Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick’d from the lazy finger of a [maid]. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love; [O’er] courtiers’ knees, that dream on cur’sies straight; O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees; O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breath with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail Tickling a parson’s nose as ’a lies asleep, Then he dreams of another benefice. Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fadom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, And being thus f...

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air,

Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.

But passion lends them power, time means, to meet, Temp’ring extremities with extreme sweet.

If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.

Go then, for ’tis in vain To seek him here that means not to be found.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious;

O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet;

I have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes, And but thou love me, let them find me here; My life were better ended by their hate, Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

at lovers’ perjuries They say Jove laughs.

O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her [circled] orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

I have no joy of this contract to-night, It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say it lightens.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

For nought so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give; Nor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.