William Shakespeare

Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom of good old Abraham!

Stars, stars! And all eyes else dead coals.

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, for suff'rance is the badge of all our tribe. You call me misbeliever, cutthroat dog, and spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, and all for use of that which is mine own. Merchant of Venice, Act i, Scene 3

Study is like the heaven's glorious sun, that will not be deep searched with saucy looks; small have continual plodders ever won, save base authority from others' books.

Such seems your beauty still.

Surely, sir, there's in him stuff that puts him to these ends; for, being not propped by ancestry, whose grace chalks successors their way, nor called upon for high feats done to th' crown, neither allied to eminent assistants, but spiderlike out of his self-drawing web, 'a gives us note, the force of his own merit makes his way, a gift that heaven gives for him, which buys a place next to the king.

Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair; and at their heels, a huge infectious troop of pale distemperatures and foes to life.

Stay away from the language of thought, and rashly thought - from the action.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace to silence envious tongues.

Stuffing the ears of men with false report.

Such stuff as madmen tongue.

Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend.

Sweet, above thought I love thee.

Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets, and about our task.

Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!

Such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff.

Such tricks hath strong imagination That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes; treason is but trusted like the fox, who never so tame, so cherished and locked up, will have a wild trick of his ancestors.

Sweet, bid me hold my tongue, for in this rapture I shall surely speak the thing I shall repent.

Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend.

Still to remember wrongs?

Such a house broke? So noble a master fall'n; all gone, and not One friend to take his fortune by the arm And go along with him?

Such war of white and red within her cheeks.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind! The thief doth fear each bush an officer. King Henry the Sixth, Part III (Gloucester at V, vi)

Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.