I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.
Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.
He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man. He that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him.
Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.
Oh, I am fortune's fool!
I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.
And too soon Marred are those so early Made.
Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.
World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.
In such business Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th’ ignorant More learned than the ears.
If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,-- Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun.
On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.
God's will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle!
And to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour. BEATRICE No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.
what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes
The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our teeples, drowned the cocks! You sulphurour and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man!
So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.
Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee? BEATRICE Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. BENEDICK O, stay but till then! BEATRICE 'Then' is spoken; fare you well now... (Much Ado About Nothing)
A miracle. Here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light I take thee for pity. Beatrice: I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. Benedick: Peace. I will stop your mouth.
Two households, both alike in dignity In fair Verona, where we lay our scene From ancient grudge break to new mutiny Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
You are an alchemist; make gold of that.
That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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