Do all men kill the things they do not love?
I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing.
But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
Some men there are love not a gaping pig, some that are mad if they behold a cat, and others when the bagpipe sings I the nose cannot contain their urine.
There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
Bassanio: Do all men kill all the things they do not love? Shylock: Hates any man the thing he would not kill? Bassanio: Every offence is not a hate at first.
By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me.
So shines a good deed... in a weary world.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.
There are a sort of men, whose visages Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond; And do a willful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity profound conceit; As who should say, I am sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.
I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority: To do a great right, do a little wrong.
So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupts, but being seasoned with a gracious voice obscures the show of evil.
The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise, in such a night.
These blessed candles of the night.
Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!
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