Quotes
Quotes - Shakespeare
See where she comes, apparelled like the spring, Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king Of every virtue gives renown to men!
So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them.
And now, my honey love, Will we return unto thy father's house And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats and caps and golden rings, With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things; With scarfs and fans and double change of brav'ry, With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knav'ry.
He will come to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a color she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt.
A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.
There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this.
I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come when you do call for them?
What are these, So withered and so wild in their attire That took not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth And yet are on't?
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee! I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw.
Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the churchway paths to glide.
Epicurean cooks Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite, That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honor Evan till a Lethe'd dulness--
Read o'er this And after, this, and then to breakfast with What appetite you have.
Now good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both!
Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?
But doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.
The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite.
The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness.
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast?
With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.
If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud you again.
I'll privily away; I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes; Though it do well, I do not relish well Their loud applause and aves vehement, Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does not affect it.
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel When well-apparelled April on the heel Of limping Winter treads, even such delight Among fresh fennel buds shall you this night Inherit at my house.
From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him; Yet nor the lays of birds, not the sweet smell Of different flowers in odor and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and you away, As with your shadow I with these did play.
Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley, fetches, oats, and pease; Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, And flat meads thatched with stover, them to keep; Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, Which spongy April at thy hest betrims To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves, Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, Being lasslorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard; And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard, Where thou thyself dost air--the queen o' th' sky, Whose wat-ry arch and messenger am I, Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace, Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain. Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.
