This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven.
I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.
I can express no kinder sign of love, than this kind kiss.
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.
If thou dost love, proclaim it faithfully.
A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing; ’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.
He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
Love for thy love , and hand for hand I give.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence
Officers, what offence have these men done? DOGBERRY Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.
The love of wicked men converts to fear; That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death.
O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable
Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast...
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