"William Shakespeare"の名言

The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.

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

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

Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.

Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.

This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.

We know what we are, but not what we may be.

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages.

Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find.

You speak an infinite deal of nothing.

Though she be but little, she is fierce!

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; 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; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 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? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.--Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd!

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.