Summer's lease hath all too short a date.
All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
If I wrote in a sonnet form, I would be distorting. Or if I had some great new idea for line breaks and I used it in a poem, but it's really not right for that poem, but I wanted it, that would be distorting.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
I have three phobias which, could I mute them, would make my life as slick as a sonnet, but as dull as ditch water: I hate to go to bed, I hate to get up, and I hate to be alone.
Each work of art excludes the world, concentrates attention on itself. For the time it is the only thing worth doing -to do just that; be it a sonnet, a statue, a landscape, an outline head of Caesar, or an oration. Presently we return to the sight of another that globes itself into a whole as did the first, for example, a beautiful garden; and nothing seems worth doing in life but laying out a garden.
I write quite a lot of sonnets, and I think of them almost as prayers: short and memorable, something you can recite.
The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
I am frequently astonished that it so often results in correct predictions of experimental results.
Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.
Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun
Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come.
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
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