In time we hate that which we often fear. Nay, but make haste the better foot before. Wisely, and slow they stumble that run fast. Who can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you. Ingratitude is monstrous and for the multitude to be ingrateful, were to make a monster of the multitude. Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd īut jealous souls will not be answer'd so Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd, How some have been depos'd, some slain in war, Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothingĪnd tell sad stories of the death of kings: The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen When miracles have by the greatest been denied. It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mockįrom simple sources, and great seas have dried
That treason can but peep to what it would. Though I perchance am vicious in my guess, Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. Men's evil manners live in brass their virtues No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned. Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't.įor then, 'tis like I should forget myself. How goes it now, sir? This news which is called true is so like an old tale, that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise. Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak. Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart? That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?īlown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures, What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Troilus and Cressida
Than that which hath no foil to set it off. Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes My reformation, glittering o'er my fault, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, The Merchant of VeniceĪnd like bright metal on a sullen ground, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Antony and Cleopatra O wretched state! O bosom black as death! Try what repentance can: what can it not? He hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book he hath not eat paper, as it were he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. The robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief They are all fire and every one doth shine,īut there's but one in all doth hold his place.Īpril hath put a spirit of youth in everything. The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks, To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal īy giving love, your sorrow and my grief were both extermin'd. When sorrows come, they come not single spies, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the graveĪnd wish the estate o' the world were now undone.Ī little snow, tumbled about, anon becomes a mountain. Rides on the posting winds and doth belieĪll corners of the world kings, queens and states, Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Or those that be not, would they might seem none! Plate sin with gold,Īnd the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks Īrm it in rags, a pigmy's straw doth pierce it. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, A Midsummer Night's Dream WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Pericles, Prince of Tyre 'Tis time to fear, when tyrants seem to kiss. My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel.įarewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country. There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture. Stuffing the ears of men with false reports
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vicesĪnd in their triumph die like fire and powder, I were but little happy, if I could say how much. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Love's Labour's Lost WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Much Ado About Nothingĭevils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light. The virtue that possession would not show us Why, then we rack the value, then we find Whilse we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners. Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, All's Well That Ends Well Your old virginity is like one of our French withered pears: it looks ill, it eats drily.
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