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“By Gis, and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do’t if they come to’t, By Cock, they are to blame. Quoth she, ‘Before you tumbled me, You promis’d me to wed.’” (He answers.) “‘So would I ’a’ done, by yonder sun, And thou hadst not come to my bed.’”
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions:
Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?
Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating, and when you are ask’d this question next, say “a grave-maker”: the houses he makes lasts till doomsday.
Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England? 1. Clo. Why, because ’a was mad. ’A shall recover his wits there, or if ’a do not, ’tis no great matter there. Ham. Why? 1. Clo. ’Twill not be seen in him there, there the men are as mad as he.
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him,
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will—
I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are [now] making the beast with two backs.
To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
But words are words; I never yet did hear That the bruis’d heart was pierced through the [ear].
Virtue? a fig! ’tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners; so that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up [tine], supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manur’d with industry—why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills.
Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free [to]. Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vild and false, As where’s that palace whereinto foul things Sometimes intrude not? Who has that breast so pure [But some] uncleanly apprehensions Keep leets and law-days and in sessions sit With meditations lawful?
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing; ’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-ey’d monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But O, what damned minutes tells he o’er Who dotes, yet doubts; suspects, yet [strongly] loves!
Poor and content is rich, and rich enough, But riches fineless is as poor as winter To him that ever fears he shall be poor.
But jealious souls will not be answer’d so; They are not ever jealious for the cause, But jealious for they’re jealious. It is a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.
Des. I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men! Dost thou in conscience think—tell me, Emilia— That there be women do abuse their husbands In such gross kind? Emil. There be some such, no question. Des. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world? Emil. Why, would not you? Des. No, by this heavenly light! Emil. Nor I neither by this heavenly light; I might do’t as well i’ th’ dark. Des. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world? Emil. The world’s a huge thing; it is a great price For a small vice. Des. [Good] troth, I think thou wouldst not. Emil. [By my] troth, I think I should,
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I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that lov’d not wisely but too well;
An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition on the charge of a star!
Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest, Ride more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than thou throwest; Leave thy drink and thy whore, And keep in a’ door, And thou shalt have more Than two tens to a score.
Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy? Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given away, that thou wast born with.
No, faith, lords and great men will not let me; if I had a monopoly out, they would have part an’t. And ladies too, they will not let me have all the fool to myself, they’ll be snatching.]
If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipt that first finds it so.
I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are. They’ll have me whipt for speaking true; thou’lt have me whipt for lying; and sometimes I am whipt for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind o’ thing than a Fool, and yet I would not be thee, nuncle: thou hast par’d thy wit o’ both sides, and left nothing i’ th’ middle.
“The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long, That [it] had it head bit off by it young.”
May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse?
A fox, when one has caught her, And such a daughter, Should sure to the slaughter, If my cap would buy a halter, So the Fool follows after.
How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell: Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind, But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne’er turns the key to th’ poor.
When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again, I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it.
That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack when it begins to rain, And leave thee in the storm. But I will tarry, the Fool will stay, And let the wise man fly. The knave turns fool that runs away, The Fool no knave, perdie.
“He that has and a little tine wit— With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain— Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day.”
But where the greater malady is fix’d, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’dst shun a bear, But if [thy] flight lay toward the roaring sea, Thou’dst meet the bear i’ th’ mouth.
Child Rowland to the dark tower came,
He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.
[Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once: of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of [mopping] and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting-women. So, bless thee, master!]
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares [do] more is none.
Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse. Thou marvel’st at my words, but hold thee still: Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
Out, damn’d spot! out, I say!
Macb. Cure [her] of that. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? Doct. Therein the patient Must minister to himself.
The time approaches That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate, But certain issue strokes must arbitrate, Towards which advance the war.
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.
Thou wast born of woman. But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born.
the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
I know not, Menas, How lesser enmities may give way to greater. Were’t not that we stand up against them all, ’Twere pregnant they should square between themselves, For they have entertained cause enough To draw their swords; but how the fear of us May cement their divisions, and bind up The petty difference, we yet not know.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety. Other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies; for vildest things Become themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish.
Thy daemon, that thy spirit which keeps thee, is Noble, courageous, high unmatchable, Where Caesar’s is not; but near him, thy angel Becomes a fear, as being o’erpow’r’d: therefore Make space enough between you.
