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Shakespeare quotes on gravePity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away From the great compt; but love that comes too late, Like a remorseful Source: ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss The warlike service he has done, consider; think Upon the wounds his body bears, which show Like graves i' th' holy churchyard Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave (sings) They bore him barefac'd on the bier (Hey non nony, nony, hey nony) And in his grave rain'd many a tear A very riband in the cap of youth- Yet needfull too; for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Thin settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and graveness Come, my spade! There is no ancient gentlemen but gard'ners, ditchers, and grave-makers [Scatters flowers.] I hop'd thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy grave We'll put the matter to the present push.- Good Gertrude, Source: THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK What trust is in these times? They that, when Richard liv'd, would have him die Are now become enamour'd on his grave Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers, To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur's neck, Have talk'd of Monmouth's grave I am a king that find thee; and I know 'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced tide running fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world- No, not all these, thrice gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave Who, with a body fill'd and vacant mind, Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread; Never sees horrid night, the child of hell; But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Pheebus, and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn, Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse; And follows so the ever-running year With profitable labour, to his grave Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave Stay, my Lord Legate; you shall first receive The sum of money which I promised Should be delivered to his Holiness For clothing me in these grave ornaments Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud, And caterpillars eat my leaves away; But I will remedy this gear ere long, Or sell my title for a glorious grave Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine; See if thou canst outface me with thy looks; Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser; Thy hand is but a finger to my fist, Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon; My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast, And if mine arm be heaved in the air, Thy grave is digg'd already in the earth Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow? Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair, Thou mad misleader of thy brainsick son! What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles? O, where is faith? O, where is loyalty? If it be banish'd from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbour in the earth? Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war And shame thine honourable age with blood? Why art thou old, and want'st experience? Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it? For shame! In duty bend thy knee to me, That bows unto the grave with mickle age So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave [To her WOMEN] Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, No friends, no hope; no kindred weep for me; Almost no grave allow'd me When I am dead, good wench, Let me be us'd with honour; strew me over With maiden flowers, that all the world may know I was a chaste wife to my grave Y'are a gentleman Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious; And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well- 'Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take't of me- Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she, Sleep in their graves Stay yet, Lord Salisbury, I'll go with thee And find th' inheritance of this poor child, His little kingdom of a forced grave Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves Alas, poor country, Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call'd our mother, but our grave [Aside] O heavens! This is my true-begotten father, who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not Is't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation To think so base a thought; it were too gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave the first suit is hot and hasty like a Scotch jig--and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes Repentance and with his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave 'Farewell.' And, for my heart disdained that my tongue Should so profane the word, that taught me craft To counterfeit oppression of such grief That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee! These words hereafter thy tormentors be! Convey me to my bed, then to my grave And let them die that age and sullens have; For both hast thou, and both become the grave to drop them still upon one place Till they have fretted us a pair of graves Within the earth; and, therein laid-there lies Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood, That foul defacer of God's handiwork, That excellent grand tyrant of the earth That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls, Thy womb let loose to chase us to our graves Thy Clarence he is dead that stabb'd my Edward; And the beholders of this frantic play, Th' adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves O, no, my reasons are too deep and dead- Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave Said he not so? or did I dream it so? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet To think it was so? O, give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune's book! I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave But hadst thou not cross'd me, thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell and she under her horse; thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was bemoil'd, how he left her with the horse upon her, how he beat me because her horse stumbled, how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me, how he swore, how she pray'd that never pray'd before, how I cried, how the horses ran away, how her bridle was burst, how I lost my crupper- with many things of worthy memory, which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienc'd to thy grave And in the morn I'll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples, Where I have hope to see the nuptial Of these our dear-belov'd solemnized, And thence retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave Though thou abhorr'dst in us our human griefs, Scorn'dst our brain's flow, and those our droplets which From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye On thy low grave, on faults forgiven Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee out, Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good, I may be pluck'd into the swallowing womb Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus' grave [Reads] 'An if we miss to meet him handsomely, Sweet huntsman- Bassianus 'tis we mean- Do thou so much as dig the grave for him For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded, Our father's tears despis'd, and basely cozen'd Of that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out And sent her enemies unto the grave Some loving friends convey the Emperor hence, And give him burial in his father's grave He hath indeed, almost natural; for, besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose To cross my friend in his intended drift Than, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows which would press you down, Being unprevented, to your timeless grave Thyself hast lov'd; and I have heard thee say No grief did ever come so near thy heart As when thy lady and thy true love died, Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity Go to, go to! How she holds up the neb, the bill to him! And arms her with the boldness of a wife To her allowing husband! Exeunt POLIXENES, HERMIONE, and ATTENDANTS Gone already! Inch-thick, knee-deep, o'er head and ears a fork'd one! Go, play, boy, play; thy mother plays, and I Play too; but so disgrac'd a part, whose issue Will hiss me to my grave I shall report, For most it caught me, the celestial habits- Methinks I so should term them- and the reverence Of the grave wearers Thou hast found mine; But how, is to be question'd; for I saw her, As I thought, dead; and have, in vain, said many A prayer upon her grave Quotes for: Shakespeare Quotes
Source: Project Gutenburg Texts
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