Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the state some service, and they know't.— No more of that.—I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely, but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but,
William ShakespeareYou must forsake this room, and go with us: Your power and your command is taken off, And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave,— If there be any cunning cruelty That can torment him much and
William ShakespeareI like him not, nor stands it safe with us
To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you;
I your commission will forthwith dispatch,
And he to England shall along with you:
The terms of our estate may not endure
Hazard so dangerous as doth hourly grow
Out of his lunacies.
I am in blood so deep that to wade no further is as tedious as to go over
William ShakespeareWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
William ShakespeareÖlçüsüzlüğün hüküm sürdüğü bir yerde saygının esamesi bile okunmaz. O zaman doğa da sapar yolundan. Uysal sular taşkınlara dönüşür bir anda, bir anda toprak bataklığa dönüşür, haklılar değil güçlüler kazanır bütün davaları. Zalim evlat kıyar babasının canına, hakkın hukukun yerine zorbalık adalet dağıtmaya başlayınca da haklıyla haksızı ayırt etmenin imkanı kalmaz. Adaletin de adı kalır, kendi yok olur gider. Güç, iradenin emrinden çıkıp ihtirasın emrine girer ve iştahlı bir kurt gibi önüne ne çıkarsa saldırıp kemire kemire yok eder. En sonunda da kendi başını yer...
William ShakespeareÆmilianus Shchekochikhin I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause
But rather reason thus with reason fetter,
Love sought is good, but given unsought better.
O, she was foul!— I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopp'd: I know this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead: Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobance. OTHELLO 'Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath
William ShakespeareI would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting
William ShakespeareMots clés a-winter-s-tale act-3 scene-3
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He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
William ShakespeareMots clés pride troilus-and-cressida
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