I would not put a thief in my mouth to steal my brains.
I would not put a thief in my mouth to steal my brains.
Is he not light of brain?
Nay, I do bear a brain.
It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all
the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it
apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and
delectable shapes; which delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue,
which is the birth, becomes excellent wit.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the fraught bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart
Memory, the warder of the brain.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;
She treads the path that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting;
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
I presume
That, as my hand has open'd bounty to you,
My heart dropp'd love, my pow'r rain'd honour, more
On you than any, so your hand and heart,
Your brain, and every function of your power,
Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty,
As 'twere in love's particular, be more
To me, your friend, than any.
And in this state she 'gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on cursies straight;
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Within the book and volume of my brain.
I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath
ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth- to sleep.
This is the very coinage of your brain.
To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward;
which I will add
To you, the liver, heart, and brain, of Britain,
By whom I grant she lives.
Look what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
My brain, more busy than the labouring spider,
Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
The brain may devise
laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree;
such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good
counsel the cripple.
Ideas are the very coinage of your brain.
No, nor nowhere else but in your brain.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories