William Shakespeare

Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!

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.

This hand shall never more come near thee with such friendship

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;But do not dull thy palm with entertainmentOf each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,All losses are restored and sorrows end.

Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.

I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.

Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove.O no, it is an ever-fixed markThat looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wand'ring bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken."

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

...what care I for words? Yet words do wellWhen he that speaks them pleases those that hear.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.

Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. then your love would also change.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;This sensible warm motion to becomeA kneaded clod; and the delighted spiritTo bathe in fiery floods, or to resideIn thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,And blown with restless violence round aboutThe pendent world; or to be worse than worstOf those that lawless and incertain thoughtImagine howling: 'tis too horrible!The weariest and most loathed worldly lifeThat age, ache, penury and imprisonmentCan lay on nature is a paradiseTo what we fear of death.

I could a tale unfold whose lightest wordWould harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,Thy knotted and combined locks to part,And each particular hair to stand on endLike quills upon the fretful porpentine.But this eternal blazon must not beTo ears of flesh and blood.List, list, O list!

O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?And shall I couple Hell?

Screw your courage to the sticking-place

In time we hate that which we often fear.

Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.