The Book of Shakespeare


(1564 – 1616)

 Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.
Which we ascribe to heaven.


Heaven doth with us as we with torches do.
Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, ’twere all
Alike as if we had them not.

Go to your bosom; knock there and ask your heart what it doth know.


There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

There is nothing good or bad that thinking doesn’t make it so 

 To be, or not to be: this 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 shocks
That flesh is heir too, tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. 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.

Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with pale cast of thought.
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this current turn awry,
And lose the name of action.



I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start.The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit….



There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

Omitted, all the voyages of their life
Is bound in shadows and miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.


Let me have about me men that are fat;
Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’nights;
Yon’d Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.


Men at some times are masters of their fates;
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars;
But in ourselves….


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