We are arrant knaves all, believe none of us.

William Shakespeare

Mots clés hamlet hidden-meaning truthiness

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Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer

William Shakespeare

Mots clés inspirational art spirits

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Thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more.

William Shakespeare

Mots clés fear sleep death rest

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The wheel is come full circle.

William Shakespeare

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Tradução livre por Rodrigo Suzuki Cintra

Quando meu amor jura que é feita de verdade,
Eu acredito nela, apesar de saber que é mentira,
Ela deve pensar que sou qualquer moço sem idade
Que não conhece de fato como o mundo gira.
Assim, inutilmente acreditando que ela me acha jovem,
Apesar de saber que meus melhores dias já não voltam mais,
Simplesmente eu acredito em suas palavras que me comovem,
Na medida em que a verdade não nos satisfaz.
Mas por que ela não admite ser desonesta?
E por que não admito ser um homem idoso?
O melhor do amor é ser hábito que ninguém protesta,
Pois mentir no amor é sempre mais gostoso:
Nos deitamos em nossas mentiras, eu com ela e ela comigo
E na mentira do amor nós encontramos abrigo.

William Shakespeare

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You have but mistook me all the while... I live by bread like you, taste grief, feel want, need friends. Conditioned thus how can you call me king?

William Shakespeare

Mots clés richard-ii

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Beshrew your eyes,
They have o'erlook'd me and divided me;
One half of me is yours, the other half yours,
Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,
And so all yours.

William Shakespeare

Mots clés shakespeare eyes merchant-of-venice portia

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More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before:
The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past

William Shakespeare

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Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all,
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call,
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest,
But yet be blam’d, if thou this self deceivest
By willful taste of what thyself refusest.

William Shakespeare

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Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud.

William Shakespeare

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