All’s Well That Ends Well quotes

The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than have it.

I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.

Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness Share with thy birthright!

Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none

: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech.

To speak on the part of virginity, is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature.

Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach.

Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but loose by’t: out with’t! within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase;

else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends: get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee: so, farewell. Exit.

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

: the fated sky Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. What power is it which mounts my love so high, That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?

O, then, give pity To her, whose state is such that cannot choose But lend and give where she is sure to lose; That seeks not to find that her search implies,

But riddle-like lives sweetly where she dies!

Had you not lately an intent—speak truly— To go to Paris?

Good faith, across: but, my good lord ’tis thus; Will you be cured of your infirmity?

O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox?

Yes, but you will my noble grapes, an if My royal fox could reach them: I have seen a medicine That’s able to breathe life into a stone, Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary With spritely fire and motion;

We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest, That I protest I simply am a maid.

Please it your majesty, I have done already: The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me, “We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be refused, Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever; We’ll ne’er come there again.”

but do not so: From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, The place is dignified by the doer’s deed: Where great additions swell’s, and virtue none, It is a dropsied honour.

Good alone Is good without a name.

Vileness is so: The property by what it is should go, Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair; In these to nature she’s immediate heir, And these breed honour:

O my Parolles, they have married me! I’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars!

There’s letters from my mother: what the import is, I know not yet.

Why, these balls bound; there’s noise in it. ’Tis hard:

A young man married is a man that’s marr’d

: Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go: The king has done you wrong: but, hush, ’tis so. Exeunt.

Something; and scarce so much: nothing, indeed. I would not tell you what I would, my lord: Faith yes;

Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss.

I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.

It is an honour ’longing to our house, Bequeathed down from many ancestors; Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world In me to lose.

Mine honour’s such a ring

: My chastity’s the jewel of our house, Bequeathed down from many ancestors; Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world In me to lose: thus your own proper wisdom Brings in the champion Honour on my part, Against your vain assault.

He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown; and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour: he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.

Now, God delay our rebellion! as we are ourselves, what things are we!

Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends, so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o’erflows himself.

Now, God delay our rebellion! as we are ourselves, what things are we!

Merely our own traitors.

And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends, so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o’erflows himself.

I am heartily sorry that he’ll be glad of this.

How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!

And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquired for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.

And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquired for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.

How now! where’s your master?

We’ll see what may be done, so you confess freely; therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain: you have answered to his reputation with the duke and to his valour: what is his honesty?

He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister

: for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus: he professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking ’em he is stronger than Hercules: he will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool:

except, in that country he had the honour to be the officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files: I would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certain.

He hath out-villained villany so far, that the rarity redeems him.

A pox on him, he’s a cat still.

Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great, ’Twould burst at this. Captain I’ll be no more; But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft As captain shall: simply the thing I am Shall make me live.

Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this, for it will come to pass That every braggart shall be found an ass.

Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live Safest in shame! being fool’d, by foolery thrive! There’s place and means for every man alive. I’ll after them. Exit.

Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this, for it will come to pass That every braggart shall be found an ass. Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live Safest in shame! being fool’d, by foolery thrive!

There’s place and means for every man alive.

I’ll after them. Exit.

but to himself The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife Whose beauty did astonish the survey Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive, Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve Humbly call’d mistress.

Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear.

Well, call him hither; We are reconciled, and the first view shall kill All repetition: let him not ask our pardon; The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper than oblivion we do bury The incensing relics of it:

All is whole; Not one word more of the consumed time.

Let’s take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time Steals ere we can effect them.

You remember The daughter of this lord?

but love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offence, Crying, “That’s good that’s gone.” Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious things we have,

Not knowing them until we know their grave

: Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, Destroy our friends and after weep their dust Our own love waking cries to see what’s done, While shame full late sleeps out the afternoon. Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her.

He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.

He loved her, sir, and loved her not.

As thou art a knave, and no knave. What an equivocal companion is this!

I am a poor man, and at your majesty’s command.

He’s a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator.

Do you know he promised me marriage?