Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.
Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.
Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
The let-alone lies not in your good will.
Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.
Thou weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.- Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!
A piece of work that will make sick men whole.
This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.
Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.
Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up tine, supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness, or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills.
She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.
I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.
And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
Tis within ourselves that we are thus or thus
Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.
Thou losest here, a better where to find.
Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.
All that glitters is not gold.
The poorest service is repaid with thanks.
O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!
But are not some whole that we must make sick?
Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me.
We will have rings and things and fine array
O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, That he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell!
But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.
Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.
Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you.
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent.
O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school; And though she be but little, she is fierce.
Danger knows full well that Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter'd in one day, and I the elder and more terrible.
When we are born, we cry that we have come to this stage of fools
To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.
He hath disgrac'd me and hind'red me half a million; laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies. And what's his reason? I am a Jew.
Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up. Be that thou know'st thou art and then thou art as great as that thou fear'st.
Oh, what fools these mortals be!
Fill till the wine o'erswell the cup
Who is it that can tell me who I am?
Wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty like a Scotch jig--and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes repentance and with his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.
Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion
I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much, He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays As thou dost, Anthony; he heard no music; Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mocked himself and scorned his spirit That could be moved to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories