O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
T'is true: there's magic in the web of it...
thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.
Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new-create another heir As great in admiration as herself.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. William Shakespeare
The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.
HAMLET [...] we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table; that's the end. CLAUDIUS Alas, alas. HAMLET A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hat
I will be master of what is mine own:She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,My household stuff, my field, my barn,My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing.
But when the fox hath once got in his nose, He'll soon find means to make the body follow.
Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.
Now he'll outstare the lightning. To be furious Is to be frightened out of fear.
That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;The ornament of beauty is suspect,A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
Let life be short, else shame will be too long.
O, the blood more stirsTo rouse a lion than to start a hare!
They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.
This is the very ecstasy of love.
I'll not meddle with it. It makes a man a coward: a man cannot steal but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbor's wife but it detects him. 'Tis a blushing, shamefaced spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made m
He was not so much brain as earwax
Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord,That would reduce these bloody days againAnd make poor England weep in streams of blood!Let them not live to taste this land's increaseThat would with treason wound this fair land's peace!Now civil wounds are stopped, peace lives again:That she may long live
The soul of this man is his clothes.
Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
Good morrow, fair ones; pray you, if you know,Where in the purlieus of this forest standsA sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?
Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.
O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side! William Shakesp
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
Milk-livered man,That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerningThine honor from thy suffering; [that not know'stFools do those villains pity who are punishedEre they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum?France spreads his banners in our noiseless
Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye.
Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.