Brevity is the soul of wit.
Present fears. Are less than horrible imaginings.
Love is blind, and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.
Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself. Till, by broad spreading it disperse to nought.
Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
O, how this spring of love resembleth. The uncertain glory of an April day!
The labor we delight in cures pain.
Life is but a walking shadow.
There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.
One sorrow never comes but brings an heir. That may succeed as his inheritor.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice; Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgement.
To be, or not to be: that is the question.
You gods, will give us. Some faults to make us men.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
It is a wise father that knows his own child.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale.
Poor and content is rich and rich enough; but riches endless is as poor and winter to him that ever fears he shall be poor.
Expectation is the root of all heartache.
The worst is not, So long as we can say, ‘This is the worst.’
Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.
How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues; Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.
The better for my foes and the worse for my friends.
There is a tide in the affairs of men. Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life. Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.
Women are as roses, whose fairflower being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.
Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.
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.
A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.