Thou art the thing itself;
unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked
animal as thou art.
Thou art the thing itself;
unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked
animal as thou art.
O, had I but followed the arts!
Flesh and blood,
You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition,
Expell'd remorse and nature, who, with Sebastian-
Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong-
Would here have kill'd your king, I do forgive thee,
Unnatural though thou art.
Discuss unto me: art thou officer,
Or art thou base, common, and popular?
The naked, poor, and mangled Peace, Dear nurse of arts, plenty's, and joyful births.
But what thou art, God, thou, and I, do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
Go, coward as thou art.
The object of art is to give life a shape. Midsummer Nights Dream
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.
Thee have I not locked up in any chest,
Save where thou art not-though I feel thou art-
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
Hast any philosophy in thee shepherd . ... He that wants money, means and content, is without three good friends that the property of rain is to wet and fire to burn that good pasture makes fat sheep, and a great cause of the night is lack of the sun that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred.
The object of art is to give life a shape.
Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress?
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thyself, away, art present still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won;
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed;
And when a woman woos, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed?
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed:
From where thou art, why should I haste me thence?
What, art thou mad, old fellow?
Art made tongue-tied by authority.
Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,
Once by the King and three times thrice by thee,
'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence;
A wilderness is populous enough,
So Suffolk had thy heavenly company;
For where thou art, there is the world itself,
With every several pleasure in the world;
And where thou art not, desolation.
Art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my friend?
How can I then be elder than thou art?
From women's eyes this doctrine I derive They sparkle still the right Promethean fire They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish all the world.
Flavius Thou art a cobbler, art thou 2nd Commoner Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl ... I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes.
Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.
This is an art Which does mend nature - change it rather but The art itself is nature.
Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
Art thou of blood and honour?
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.
Forgive the comment that my passion made
Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind,
And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Presented thee more hideous than thou art.
A god on earth thou art.
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?
Since then my office hath so far prevail'd
That face to face and royal eye to eye
You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me
If I demand, before this royal view,
What rub or what impediment there is
Why that the naked, poor, and mangled Peace,
Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births,
Should not in this best garden of the world,
Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage?
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories