In nature there is no blemish but the mind none can be called deformed but the unkind
In nature there is no blemish but the mind none can be called deformed but the unkind
Thoughts are no subjects;
Intents but merely thoughts.
DUCHESS OF YORK God bless thee, and put meekness in thy mind, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty GLOUCESTER Aside Amen and make me die a good old man That is the butt-end of a mothers blessing I marvel why her grace did leave it out.
Nay if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
I would I could not think it that thought is bounty's foe Being free itself, it thinks all others so.
I have not that alacrity of spirit, Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have.
If you shall send them word you will not come,
Their minds may change.
Faith, but you do, in my mind.
Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you voutsafe
me, look you, a few disputations with you, as partly touching or
concerning the disciplines of the war, the Roman wars, in the way
of argument, look you, and friendly communication; partly to
satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, look you, of
my mind, as touching the direction of the military discipline,
that is the point.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;
For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
This is the very coinage of your brain.
I will be here again, even with a thought.
O' what a noble mind is here overthrown.
To be, or not to be that is the question Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them To die to sleep No more and, by a sleep to say we end.
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast.
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.
'Tis good for men to love their present pains
Upon example; so the spirit is eased;
And when the mind is quick'ned, out of doubt
The organs, though defunct and dead before,
Break up their drowsy grave and newly move
With casted slough and fresh legerity.
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.
Had he been where he thought,
By this had thought been past.
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
My brain, more busy than the labouring spider,
Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul,
My soul the father; and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little world,
In humours like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented.
Thought is free.
That which is now a horse, even with a thought
The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,
As water is in water.
I was three or four
times in the thought they were not fairies; and yet the
guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers,
drove the grossness of the foppery into a receiv'd belief,
in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that they
were fairies.
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but leadest this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act; and then, 'tis thought,
Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
And where thou now exacts the penalty,
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,
But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal,
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
That have of late so huddled on his back-
Enow to press a royal merchant down,
And pluck commiseration of his state
From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd
To offices of tender courtesy.
Day, night, late, early,
At home, abroad, alone, in company,
Waking or sleeping, still my care hath been
To have her match'd; and having now provided
A gentleman of princely parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,
Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts,
Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man-
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender,
To answer 'I'll not wed, I cannot love;
I am too young, I pray you pardon me'!
O mischief, thou art swift; To enter in the thoughts of desperate men.
For your part,
To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony;
Our arms in strength of malice, and our hearts
Of brothers' temper, do receive you in
With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul.
Hearing you praised, I say "'Tis so, 'tis true,"
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
To the orbed earth sometimes they do extend; Their view right on anon their gazes lend; To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd, The mind and sight distractedly commix'd.
That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure!
My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirred; And I myself see not the bottom of it.
I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours
Thou ran'st a tilt in honour of my love
And stol'st away the ladies' hearts of France,
I thought King Henry had resembled thee
In courage, courtship, and proportion;
But all his mind is bent to holiness,
To number Ave-Maries on his beads;
His champions are the prophets and apostles;
His weapons, holy saws of sacred writ;
His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves
Are brazen images of canonized saints.
I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
In many's looks, the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,
But heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
For the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it.
A servingman, proud in heart and mind; that curl'd my hair,
wore gloves in my cap; serv'd the lust of my mistress' heart and
did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake
words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven; one that
slept in the contriving of lust, and wak'd to do it.
O, she deceives me
Past thought!
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought,
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance pray, love, remember and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean
Shall outstrike thought; but thought will do't, I feel.
Faster than spring-time show'rs comes thought on thought,
And not a thought but thinks on dignity.
Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.
I and my brother are not known; yourself
So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown,
Cannot be questioned.
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.
He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind;
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.
Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich . . .
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories